


Match

by TolkienGirl



Category: Emma - Jane Austen
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, From the Author Who Brought You Fixing on the Hour..., Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-06
Updated: 2018-06-24
Packaged: 2019-01-09 22:09:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 40
Words: 91,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12285300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TolkienGirl/pseuds/TolkienGirl
Summary: Emmett Woodhouse returns home from college, and sets about fixing everything but himself.





	1. Chapter I

**Author's Note:**

> To my new readers: I'm that girl who does Modern AU genderbends of Jane Austen's works. At least, that seems to be my niche! My P & P genderbend, Fixing on the Hour, is currently in the query stage of publication. 
> 
> To my Fixing on the Hour Readers: I'm sorry, I'm sorry--I really will continue on with the sequel. But with the future of FoTH so excitingly in flux, it's been hard to know "in what direction" (haha) I want to take the sequel. So I've decided to divert myself a little! 
> 
> I hope you ALL enjoy.

_"Handsome, clever, rich, and with a happy disposition, seemed to unite some of the best blessings of existence."_

  _i._

"I tried to call you three times this morning," Julia said. At best, Julia's impatience was thinly veiled. After three missed calls, she didn't bother veiling it at all.

Grace rolled her shoulders back, imagining that her spine was accordion-like, unfolding and realigning. "I've been in the fields all morning."

"Great.  _La abeja_ , like always."

Grace rolled her eyes at the nickname, but Julia wasn't there to see. "It's harvest season."

"It's harvest season half the year. You have the run of the place—isn't it time you put your feet up on the desk?"

"I  _am_ at my desk." Grace ran a hand over the beveled mahogany. Square, white-framed windows looked westwards—the workers were moving, ant-like, down the rows. Beyond that line of brush-yellow hills, the ocean would be glittering in the noon sun. 

Until a year ago, it had been her father's view.

Julia huffed a little, then railed onwards. "You've almost made me forget why I was calling."

"Why are you calling?"

"Trying to get ahead of the local gossip from a hundred miles away. Noel Taylor is moving back to Santa Cruz."

Grace swallowed. "Why?"

"He got married. Is getting married. I don't know—Ike never tells me anything _useful_."

Grace said, "Good for him." Her left shoulder still felt knotted and tense.

"So…" Julia dragged out the word as only a sister could. "That means  _Emmett_  is coming back to Highbury."

Grace had spent the past decade repeatedly telling Julia that she had no intention of admiring, dating, or more to the point,  _marrying_  Emmett Woodhouse, without effect. She didn't bother repeating herself. "I think he would have anyway.”

“Maybe, maybe not. But he texted Ike this morning.”

Grace said, “Mrs. Woodhouse will be happy."

"Will  _you_  be happy?"

"Of course." Grace stood up, rubbed her neck, smiled a smile that Julia couldn't see. "We all miss him. Highbury isn't the same without Emmett."

Nothing was the same without Emmett.

"Hmm," Julia murmured. She sounded satisfied. "Well, Ike and I are going to Phoenix to see Mom and Dad next weekend, but I'm sure we'll make it up at some point, all family-reunion like."

"You know how I love parties," Grace interposed dryly. "How's my nephew?"

"He cries a lot."

"He's a baby."

" _Still_."

"Kiss him for me," Grace said, and sighed. "I should go. This bookkeeping isn't going to do itself."

Julia let her go. And Grace tried to let something else go, but she couldn't, quite. The house felt very empty and quiet around her—outside she could hear the irrigators, the trucks, the low chatter, but the rooms around were brightly, impersonally tomb-like.

She whistled for Paco; he came padding down the hallway with his tongue lolling. Grace scratched between his ears.

"Emmett," she said, to see if Paco would remember. "Emmett." His ears twitched, but it was too hot for him to do much of anything. He flopped down at her feet and bellowed out a contented sigh.

Grace leaned back in her chair.

Yes, Emmett. Back from four years of school in Connecticut, with precious few holidays in between. If there was anyone Anna Woodhouse trusted to look after her most beloved son—Ike had been born first, then played second fiddle all his life—it was Noel Taylor, aspiring philosopher and known entity.

Noel Taylor was pleasant enough. A little weak in the chin, though, and it showed in his character. Grace had always thought him unequal to the task of managing Emmett, especially at college.

Emmett's chin was decidedly stubborn.  

"I suppose it's lucky that Noel didn’t get it in his head to leave Connecticut any earlier,” she said aloud to Paco. "Because then Emmett would have been left alone, and that would never do."

She had seen Emmett several times in those years. But in the last two, he hadn't been home at all when she was in Highbury. The last time she'd seen him was at Ike and Julia's wedding, a June before last.

Sibling to sibling. She, maid of honor—he, best man. Of course. Ike would never consider asking anyone else.

Emmett loved his brother as the sun might favor a lesser star, which was to say that he thought of him very little. Then again, Emmett thought very little of anyone but Emmett. Grace had known _that_ since she was six. He had been an intolerable four-year-old, and yet she had never been parted from him for more than a day until he went away.

He had looked older at the wedding. All of twenty, but with the beginnings of surer angles in his face, dark brows above green eyes, sandy hair much sleeker than it had been in tousled childhood.

They had danced, and Grace had not known what it had meant. Then Emmett said goodnight, and made some joke about her truly being his sister now, after all these years, and— _sister_ , that was all that stayed after he had gone.

Emmett went back to study in New England and two months later, Grace's parents announced that they were retiring to Arizona. Tired of the strawberry empire. Tired of what little winter northern California had to offer.

Caballero Fields had been Knightley Fields two years ago—an Anglicization of their name that Grace had never understood. When her father handed over the keys to the kingdom, she told him she was done with pretending. He had knit his brow and talked about marketability, but he had still gone to Phoenix and left her in command.

Command she had, and did, and would. Grace put aside thoughts of Emmett Woodhouse—sisterly thoughts or not—and went back out to the fields.

Rosa Martinez greeted her with a wave and handed her an extra basket. "I thought you were doing the books," she said, in careful English.

Grace switched to Spanish, knowing it was easier. "Julia called," she explained. "The books couldn't measure up after that."

Rosa laughed—Julia was well-known to the workers who had been with the Fields for years—and they fell into a rhythm of picking and talking. Busy though they were, the flood of tourists wouldn't start for a bit. Highbury was still something of a hidden gem.

"Mr. Emmett is coming back," Rosa said, starting a new row. Grace wondered how everyone knew.

"Yes," she said. "The town can run again, with the prince returned. I'll tell the mayor."

"He probably knows," Rosa pointed out, and they both laughed.

Yet the bookkeeping, as promised, did not do itself. Grace leaned over her laptop screen, bleary-eyed in the gray of darkness. She had one of those sun-headaches—had one almost every day. They all did.

She was twenty-four, she was queen of all she surveyed—if what she surveyed were the western fields. But Grace had never cared much about title.

She cared about people, and the harvest, and she cared for—

Well, of course she cared for Emmett.

She wondered off-handedly why she hadn't just texted him more. She didn't like to text; it was the old soul in her—but somehow she'd allowed the distance to rob her of the companionship of her best friend. It just seemed silly, now.

Paco curled up on the floor beside her bed and Grace watched the curtains billow in the breeze. Tomorrow would be another day in Highbury—and so would the day after that.

_ii._

“You can never go away again.”

Emmett threw an arm around his mother’s shoulders and laughed. “Why would I? I’m college educated, now—and it turns out I didn’t care that much about it.”

“Didn’t care about it?” Her brow creased with worry.

“Well…” Emmett decided it wouldn’t be particularly kind to her ruffled nerves to completely dismiss the usefulness of four years of Ivy League. “It was an interesting experiment.”

“You didn’t need to go to school to learn art,” Mom said, leaning her head against his shoulder. “You knew everything about it already. And the winters must be so cold there.”

“I lost every fingertip to frostbite,” Emmett agreed cheerfully. “Made it impossible to sketch anymore. But here I am again—no, Mom, I was kidding…fingertips and all—and I think Highbury really is better than any other place in the world.”

“It needs you.” She broke away from him and bustled around. “You must be starving.”

“Yup.” But he cast his gaze restlessly around the room. Same old room, long and hall-like, windows facing west, too many sofas. Three, in fact. “Have you seen much of Grace lately?”

“We hardly see her at all anymore,” Mom fretted, which Emmett imagined meant that Grace came about once or twice a day. “She’s so busy. Working in the _fields_. When her father ran Knightley Fields, he didn’t waste his time doing the picking.”

He wanted to see Grace, very badly indeed. But Emmett knew better than to ever look desperate over anything. He flung himself on the nearest sofa and shut his eyes, cat-like.

He’d driven rather leisurely around Highbury before he’d returned exactly home—had to. Mom wouldn’t want him out of her sight for another week at least. It was a relief to see that nearly nothing had changed.

But Noel would be married.

Emmett was terribly selfish, with good reason—he had a rather remarkable self to look after. He liked his friends close, his enemies managed, and to have Noel forging off on his own, after he’d been like a right-hand man the past four years in Connecticut—

But, well. There was some comfort even in parting. Emmett smiled; he had done his part, and done it well.

“You look happy,” Mom was saying. “But a little flushed.”

He opened his eyes, she was looking down at him, very intently.

“I’m not getting sick, Mom. Promise.” Better head that off at the pass. “So, the Caballeros left Grace alone with the farm? Why?”

“They were tired. Moved to Arizona.” Mom grimaced. “So _hot_ there, you know. Can’t be good for their health.” She fanned herself demonstratively. “And not much thought given to their old friends—who _knows_ when they’ll be back. I hear they handed everything over to Grace. And you know she’s always been so good and wise, but that is a little much for twenty-four.”

“She _is_ twenty-four, isn’t she?” Emmett stared meditatively at the long mirror hanging opposite him. He waggled his eyebrows at his own reflection.

“Yes. Twenty-four.”

“Hmm.” Grace always seemed ageless. She was older than him, of course—but was that sixteen to his fourteen, or twenty-one to his still adolescent nineteen? Or farther back—eight to six, or six to four?

He stood up. Did it matter? “Ask her over for dinner,” he said.

“She probably won’t come.”

Emmett disregarded this. He pulled his phone out of his pocket. Yes, Grace’s number was here though he never called it— _why_ hadn’t he called her?

No point in thinking of that now. He dialed.

Grace didn’t pick up. Her voicemail message was calm and deliberate. He realized it had been a while since he’d even heard her voice.

“Grace, it’s Em. I’m back. Come to dinner. We’re having—” he paused and gave Mom a questioning glance—“Salmon? Salmon. You know. Healthy-like.”

When he hung up, he shut his eyes again. He was tired, after all.

“Should I have come to your graduation?”

“No—no. I didn’t walk, remember? Waste of time.”

He hadn’t walked because he didn’t want her—want anyone—to feel that they had to fly across the country to him. He didn’t want to see who and how many assembled, to learn whether anyone would really have come or not.

Selfishness was a family trait.


	2. Chapter II

_“Pray do not make any more matches.”_

_i._

His voice had been a little deeper. Grace had not called him back.

 _Dinner?_ She had dinner with Mrs. Woodhouse as often as she could—Mrs. Woodhouse liked the company, needed _someone_ to complain to of many imaginary ailments—and Grace had known their house so long it seemed impossible to let it go.

She had let Emmett go—they all had, maybe, but now he was back again.

Grace walked the half-mile to Hartfield and knocked lightly on the glass-paned door.

Emmett answered—all six feet of him—and she saw at a glance, he was a boy no longer. The very traces of boy remained, but he was more in command of his limbs, even of the wicked, winking dimples of his grin.

Grace could say nothing but his name—he crossed the hall and wrapped her in a tight hug.

“I’ve missed you,” he was saying. Had his shoulders always been so broad? No, they had not. “There was no one to tell me what a dipshit I was being—at appropriate intervals, of course.”

Grace slapped him lightly on the arm. He stepped back, and whatever spell he had had over her fell mercifully away. She only had to avoid looking too long into his eyes.

Now she could grin frankly back at him, just as she ought. “ _Language_!” This, with a nod inside. Mrs. Woodhouse was particular.

“Oh, my mom can’t hear,” Emmett assured her with a lazy wave of his hand. His hands were the same as they had always been—an artist’s fingers, clever and scarred.

“Can I…see any of your portfolio?”

He had spent four years studying art. She had to ask.

“Gave it to Noel. Wedding present. Not a very good one, but he seemed to like it.” He moved restlessly whenever he spoke, leading her down the same old hallway, moving little knickknacks of his mother’s an inch to left or right of their appointed places. “I’m glad I don’t have it, actually. You would have been ruthless.”

“Well, yes,” Grace agreed. “You know I never flatter you.”

“It is a wonder,” he mused, sweeping ahead of her into the living room, “That you’ll come here at all, visiting such a petulant, _wretched_ —”

“I _am_ very wretched these days,” Mrs. Woodhouse sighed, coming in behind them.

Emmett’s expression of abject horror made Grace hide a smile. “I meant _me_ , of course! Never you, Mom. Grace thinks the world of you. Why she hangs around _me_ at all—no idea. God himself hasn’t her patience.” All of this, and dimples!

Grace said mildly, “I only asked to see his portfolio.”

“And no one _can_ ,” Emmett all but crowed.

“You shouldn’t have given it to Noel,” rebuked Mrs. Woodhouse. She sunk gloomily into one of the ubiquitous sofas. “And now he’s getting _married_?”

“Be happy for him, mother-mine!” Emmett was shouting from two rooms away; he had bounded off quite suddenly. The explanation for his disappearance manifested itself a moment later when he returned, carrying his mother’s reading glasses, her book, and a glass of water. He delivered them to her with a wink in Grace’s direction, as if to say, _see, I haven’t forgotten how to look after her_. Which, Grace felt it only fair to herself to acknowledge, she would never have accused him of.

Emmett took the chair at his mother’s side and said earnestly—Emmett _could_ be strikingly earnest—“It’s certainly an old-fashioned institution, but the best thing for Noel. And I have to say, it couldn’t have happened without _me_.”

“Oh?” Grace said, arching a brow more by reflex than reproach. “ _You_ take credit for Noel’s wedding?”

Emmett didn’t answer—dinner was ready, and he whisked them off to the dining room. Over salmon, he returned to the subject as though they had never left it.

“Do I take credit for Noel marrying Ashley Weston? Absolutely.” His eyes dared her—though to do what, she could never be quite sure, which was why she always parried the look with firm composure.

Mrs. Woodhouse clucked her tongue over her frisée, distressed. “Emmett. Think of his family—who wants a wedding to worry over?”

“Mom”—coaxingly—“I _was_ thinking of him! He’s had a thing for Ashley forever. Ran off to the other side of the country with me like that would fix it. But _I_ knew what he needed.”

“It sounds like Noel figured himself out, and you chanced on a coincidental thought.” Grace finished the last bite of salmon—it _was_ delicious, the Woodhouses had an amazing personal chef—and set down her fork.

Emmett tilted his head. “There it is,” he said. “Your inexorable judgment. Well. Grace’s grave looks aside, I think I may have found my calling.”

“As an artist?” Mrs. Woodhouse frowned, confused.

“Of sorts.” Emmett’s eyes danced. “It turns out that I was _meant_ to tell other people what to do with their lives. And where better to do it than in Highbury? I can’t wait to set this place to rights.”

“Darling—” protested his mother.

“Don’t be silly, Em,” said Grace. The old nickname slipped out as easily as it ever had. “Isn’t professional matchmaker a window you’ve missed by oh, say, a hundred and fifty years at least?”

He laughed. “I’m only half-serious, but I know I’m _all_ joke to you, Grace. I just mean, art can’t do much for my _mind_ most days…I’m in need of a project. Noel was such a satisfying one. Marriage doesn’t haven’t to be the outcome. Just some sort of—improvement.”

“I would have hoped,” Grace said, “That your art would be project enough.”

“In the summer?” Emmett yawned. “No, I have to do something that brings me into the world.”

“I hope,” Mrs. Woodhouse said, “That it wasn’t all for nothing…all these years…” She stood up fitfully, pushing back her chair.

Emmett was at her side, clasping her hand. “Not at all. It was good fun. And I’ll always sketch for _you_.”

That was enough for Mrs. Woodhouse—she returned to her book and her goodbye to Grace was absent—she didn’t even warn about the dangers of getting chilled.

Grace left a little dazed. Hartfield house was set on a hilltop overlooking Highbury—you could practically see the ocean from it. At night, lights lined the walkway like fallen stars. She heard Emmett clatter down the front steps behind her.

“Grace!”

“Yes?” They had said goodnight very pleasantly. She wasn’t angry. It was just—he was tall and _grown_ in that dusky half-light—there was more ease and lean strength where he had been lanky all through his insolent teens.

But—was he changed? Grace felt the two years between them stretch out to a vast abyss, perhaps the widest yet.

“I would go after the scribbling, you know,” he said. Irreverent as always—but serious for once, too. “If only—if only _you_ say I’m good enough.”

Grace sighed and eyed him resolutely. He was beautiful, really, and oddly, magnetically brilliant—and he knew it. Knowledge such as that would dim the grandeur of brighter lights than his.

“You have potential,” she said. She had said it many times before.

“Damn it,” he said, scuffing at the dirt. If he was being contrary, or if he was truly disappointed, Grace couldn’t really tell.

“I haven’t seen any of you of your new work,” she reminded him, in a slightly softened tone.

“I gave it all way.” A touch of desperation there, perhaps.

“Right.” A moth veered drunkenly across her line of vision, flitting from glow to glow. “Emmett…why does it have to be me?”

“Because you’re always so goddamn blunt and depressing.”

Grace laughed a little. Then she shivered. It was chilly tonight after all. “Goodnight, Em,” she said. “You should go in. I don’t know what it’s like in New England, but your mother worries about night air.”

“I never get sick.” He seemed like he was going to stand there forever, a challenge and a demand.

But Grace had to leave sometime, so she did.

_ii._

A new project wouldn’t find itself tonight. Emmett contented himself with tearing his old workroom to pieces, trying to find something that had more than just _potential_. Here was an old sketch of Grace—but it wasn’t _really_ Grace, because only one of the eyes had caught that _look_.

Grace was always fair without reason—never indulging in a flight of whimsy. It made her intriguing and predictable at the same time. Grace did not care to listen to the whole of his story—that even before he was really friends with Noel, he’d seen the way Noel was around Ashley. Or the way he, Emmett, had known that Ashley liked Noel better than she let on. A break to Connecticut might have seemed like a finalizing move to some, but Emmett had known better. With careful coaxing, careful _curation_ , one might say—Noel had been persuaded to try his luck. The rest was history.

He thought of burning the sketches. Then he laughed over the melodrama of the very thought of it, and went to bed.

Mom was in one of her very sociable moods the next day. Which meant, basically, that she had her favorite one home again and wanted to show him off. Emmett pretended to mind, but he really didn’t. It was time Highbury remembered their own.

He only truly minded when she mentioned that Arthur Bates was coming for lunch.

“ _Why?_ ” Emmett demanded irritably, over the breakfast table.

“Arthur is one of our oldest friends,” Mom said. Not exactly reprimanding him, but as close as she ever got. “He’s just gotten over a bad bout of bronchitis, and he was thrilled to hear you were back in town.”

“Where else would I be?” Emmett flicked at his napkin.

“Nowhere, of course. You’ve never minded visiting with Arthur before…”

That was extraordinarily untrue, but he didn’t bother correcting her. Emmett realized, all of a sudden, that he had left behind the parties and the camaraderie (such as it was) of people his own age. He was too fastidious for some of the drunken revelry that had engaged most of his class year at school, but he liked to be celebrated. And celebration, to be truly satisfactory, had to be performed by the proper sort of people.

Stodgy, middle-aged former apple farmers, recently recovered from bronchitis, need not apply.

He glared into middle distance and wondered if what they needed was a cat. After all, Grace had had Paco for years—sometimes you needed an adoring companion to silently accede your every decision.

Cats weren’t known for their adoration. Scratch that idea.

He tolerated Arthur Bates’ droning over lunch, dull though it was. Arthur Bates was solid, sixty, balding and pouchy-eyed. Emmett could have pitied him, but Bates never shut up long enough to entice pity.

Mom didn’t mind, though. Never had. She hadn’t the same exacting taste in company as her younger son had—she had, after all, produced _Ike_. It was almost fortunate, Emmett thought bleakly, that she was such a hypochondriac. Absent these occasional bursts of sociability, she mostly kept to a narrow schedule out of fear of germs.

 _Did_ he miss Highbury? His glowing, adrenalin-rushed promises the night before seemed ridiculous now.

“My nephew Jake will be visiting me soon,” Arthur Bates was saying. “You remember, Emmett? Jake Fairfax?”

Yes, Emmett remembered Jake. Hated him, in fact. Much, much too serious. Some people thought him talented, which was even worse.

Still, manners were manners. Emmett screwed on a smile. “Great. What’s he been doing?”

“Scholarship for music. Really, really wonderful. He works so hard to cover his living expenses, and I wish I could do more…”

Arthur Bates was very poor. Yes, Emmett had heard this before. He stifled a sigh. Imagined how Grace would look very grim at the moment, if she could see him. Damn it. He needed to go visit Grace again. Teasing her, being lectured—it was much more interesting than _this_. Again, had he been wrong to rush back to Highbury, as though it would still hold enough for someone of his energies?

Arthur Bates was leaving. Emmett put all possible thoughts out of his head of Jake Fairfax and people who worked their way in the world, and drove out to the beach.

It was too cold to go in the water. Not that he would have; he disliked sand. He wandered the shore and tried to collect himself. Nothing about college—classes, girls, drinking games—had particularly engaged him. It just…wasn’t enough to hold him down. He’d had much more fun debating philosophy with Noel, plotting the next step with Ashley…

There was such a thing as emotional intelligence, if you believed that crap—and there must also be something less emotional, more calculated, wherein one had a talent for managing other people’s lives better than their own.

At first, he’d said it just to piss Grace off, just to bring a bit of color to her cheeks…she’d looked so _tired._ But the point above points was, of course…he had to find something to do. Had to find some talent.

Or convince people he _had_ one at all.

A project indeed.


	3. Chapter III

_“The real good will of a mind delighted by its own ideas.”_  

_i._

Julia and Ike delayed their visit. Grace wasn't surprised—Julia lived and talked at a mile a minute, Ike was along for the ride, and they'd make it upstate eventually. 

Julia and Emmett got on well enough, but Julia hated her mother-in-law. 

"Just another reason you have to marry into that family,  _chica_. Take some of the pressure of me." 

Grace had chuckled. Didn't Julia know? That was all Grace ever did. 

That first week after, the world seemed a little like a dream—technicolor and familiar, but with everything shifted two inches over. The status quo on a wobble; every moment a faintly uncertain thing if you spent too much time thinking about it. 

But Grace didn't have much time. She was in the fields morning to noon, tried to nap after lunch, and then stayed up to the moonlit hours with business. She liked the mornings best, under the sun. She had been a child among these strawberry rows, feet striking warm dirt, berries like bursting jewels in her hands, in her mouth. 

She reminisced sometimes with the longtime workers, but had something closer to a real friendship with Rosa. The Martinez family had been at Caballero Fields every summer since Grace was sixteen. Sickness, health, immigration hold-ups—they'd worked through it all. 

Of late, Rosa had been a bit distracted. Grace narrowed her eyes at her, and stopped when she finished a row.  

"What's up?" 

Rosa started, blushed, and bent over her baskets again. "Nothing. But Grace…do you mind speaking English more? I'd like to get better." 

Grace filed away the incident but said nothing more on the subject of Rosa's occasional dreamy stares. She started a conversation about the latest Hollywood gossip in cheerful English, and the morning passed on. 

A visitor at noon distracted  _her_ , anyway. 

She had been a little worried that the dinner at Hartfield had left Emmett in a State. She had been—well,  _she_  had been herself, but something had changed and whether it was unimportant or startlingly infinite, she couldn't be sure. He was older now, but not very much wiser.  

Yet two days later, here he was, briskly sauntering up the gravel drive to the farmhouse. 

Grace stood on the front steps and watched him, shading her eyes with a red-stained hand. It was a stiff, hot day out—the air crackled like dead leaves. Forest fire weather, Grace always thought, no matter what time of year. 

“Caballero Fields,” Emmett observed, rocking back on his heels and eyeing the sign on the house. He was dressed as casually as he ever was, which meant everything was still tailored to the inch. The flash of a watch on his lean, tanned wrist was a blinding silver glint in the spilling sun. 

“I changed the name back to ours,” Grace said. “Ruffled some feathers.” 

“What kind of feathers?” 

“The kind that like the brown people in the fields, not in business,” Grace returned flatly. She pushed a tangled lock of hair, damp with sweat, off her neck. 

“Screw them,” Emmett said emphatically. “Hell, why is  _all that_  so backward in this town?” He shook his head as though it personally offended him. “This whole damn state practically bleeds blue.” 

“Well,  _all that_  is pretty backward in this entire country.” Grace led the way to the house. “I’m trying to do my part, considering that I’m rich, educated, and don’t have enough of an accent to get much more trouble than being called ‘an exotic beauty’ by doughy middle-aged businessmen.” 

“Who said that?” Emmett’s green eyes darkened to something decidedly stormy. 

They had ended up in the kitchen. Grace stopped pouring lemonade and turned to smile at him. “Emmett! You don’t need to defend my honor!” 

He stared at her for half a second, unreadable. Then, jauntily, he leaned against the counter’s edge. “Pity. I’m itching for a duel.” 

She handed him a glass, and sipped at her own, savoring the tang. “Alright, Hamilton. Drink up—and then I’m very sorry but I have to kick you out. Unless, of course, you want to help pick. We can always use an extra pair of hands. The baskets don't fill themselves.” 

Emmett drained his glass. “I’d rather die, quite honestly.” 

“Just what I thought.” Impulsively—as impulsive as she ever was—Grace reached out and gripped his shoulder. It was…firm. “It’s good to have you back.” 

His eyes widened a little—with disbelief, or longing, or something closer to pain-- 

But he smiled it all away too soon for her to tell. “Good? Grace, don’t bring faint praise to the altar of greatness. I’ve come back to be this town’s savior, remember? To dazzle it with parties and  _real_  social opportunities, and maybe to solve a crisis of soul. Or five.”  

She rolled her eyes. "I'm more concerned you'll stir up some crises for the purpose of solving them. You know what they say about idle hands." 

"Does  _anyone_  say anything about them anymore?" Emmett, as usual, was fond of italics. You could practically hear them, slashed and affronted. 

Grace set her glass in the stone sink. "You know, there's more things to do around here than strawberry picking. You could get a job. Anybody—" 

Emmett cut her off with a grimace pulling at his mouth. Emmett had a rather annoyingly nice mouth, but he contorted it to dramatic effect. "A  _job_? God, what would people think." It wasn't even a question. 

"That you were responsible. A man of the people." 

"Ugh. Girl at college, had a dad who was into marketing—offered to hook me up." 

Grace almost said,  _why didn't you go for it?_  But what came out instead was, "Were there lots of girls at college?" 

He was watching her. A little flicker in his eyes. Then, "There were some. Nothing serious." 

Grace felt her cheeks warming up. One of those strange heat surges that came when your body was trying to work out too many hours of the sun, probably. She turned away. "I think a job might be just the thing for you. I'm not saying go be a cashier at Walmart, I'm just saying—" 

"I'm rich," Emmett said. "I'm supposed to be  _philanthropic_ , not revel in the miseries of a common man." 

"Fine," Grace retorted. A touch of irritation had crept into her tone, and she didn't like it. It felt like irritation more at herself than at Emmett. "Have it your way." 

"I always have my way," he said, teasingly, and then he was gone—a flash and a frustration. 

The books were hard to focus on that day. Grace kept pinching the bridge of her nose.  _There were some. Nothing serious._  What did that mean? Grace hadn't had time for boys in college. She'd been too busy studying agrobusiness and marketing, and helping Julia refrain from various homicides. She hadn't-- 

 _Nothing serious_. 

Why the hell was she still thinking about that? Emmett was a terrible flirt, always had been, though he was rather neurotically fastidious about being touched. Still, she could imagine him overcoming that, imagine him leaning over some giggling girl, could imagine the heat in his eyes, his mouth-- 

Grace swore more emphatically, shuffled her papers, and forced herself to shudder the image away. 

_ii._

Lucas Goddard ran a bank that would have been insignificant had it not been for the loyal, long-time patronage of the Woodhouses and Caballeros. As it was, he was another of Mrs. Woodhouse's favored guests. 

For the past few months, he had had the difficult task of training one Harry Smith, in the (ordinarily quite teachable) role of teller. Harry had moved out West with dreams of breaking into some sort of management position in Hollywood. Or acting, if nothing else worked out.  

Highbury had been a mistake on the map. 

As fate or God or the butterfly effect would have it, Harry came to dinner with Lucas Goddard at Hartfield one night, whereat Emmett also learned all of the foregoing information.  

Lucas Goddard was a talker. 

Over dinner—and in front of Harry—Goddard went on. Harry was no teller, much less an accountant. As for acting? Everyone knew how impossible it was to break into the entertainment industry unless you had friends in the highest places. 

It was notably awkward. Harry, however, was unruffled. Further, Emmett could see what Goddard couldn't--that Harry was handsome, in a blue-eyed, angelic kind of way—and eager to please. Which meant someday he  _could_ do very well in Hollywood.  

Emmett really needed more friends in high places.  

" _You're_  Emmett Woodhouse?" had been the first adoring words out of Harry's mouth, and just like that, Emmett had a project. 

Harry was from Minnesota. He had no reliable family, no reasonable plan—nothing but charm and earnestness. 

Emmett offered to show him around town.  

"I've been here for a year," Harry said, a little blankly. He was, it must be admitted, a little blank. 

Emmett grinned. "A year without  _me_  as friend and advocate. Believe me, it makes a difference." 

"He seemed like a pleasant boy," Mom said after dinner. When they were alone again—Emmett folded up in an armchair, a book half-falling from his hands. Mom, burrowing into a sweater because there had been a slight temperature drop. 

"Yeah, he was cool." He wasn't Noel, that was for sure. He was more like the endless stream of "friends" at college, who had recognized the natural leader in Emmett's natural swagger, and followed him. 

For a time. 

He knew, casually and certainly, that he'd never see any of them again. 

"You should have friends." 

"I do!" Emmett protested, as though he hadn't been musing on the absence of such a fact a moment before. "Noel...Grace..." He hoped she wouldn't ask for more evidence; it could get desperate. 

And so, from the beginning, he told himself: he needed Harry too. Not quite so much as Harry needed him, but then, of course Harry needed someone,  _anyone_  to tell him to stop swallowing half the consonants in his words, to not hold his fork  _that way_. It was just common human decency. 

Emmett was more than common, which was all the better for Harry. 

In the summer weeks that followed, Harry practically haunted Hartfield. Emmett despaired of teaching him anything  _really_  useful, but appreciated just how much he had missed having someone hanging on his every word. Noel had been a more interesting conversationalist, sure, but he was still on his ridiculously long honeymoon. 

And Mom, for all her fascination with her younger son, wasn't much of a listener. 

On one subject Harry was oddly furtive. Emmett had decided that finding Harry a girl was the next natural step to success—it had worked for Noel, hadn't it?—but Harry just turned red and told him, as boldly as he dared, to forget it. 

Not likely. Emmett smirked wisely. "There's a girl already, isn't there?" 

"Not really. Not one I'd...I don't know." They were driving through the countryside—enough time had passed since Emmett last went hiking, and he'd forgotten how dull he usually found it—and Harry shifted uneasily in the passenger seat. "Not really." 

"Well." Emmett let that particular angle of the subject drop momentarily. "We'll figure something out. Noel and Ashley are throwing a housewarming thing next week. I'll make sure you get invited." 

Harry's eyes widened. "You can do that?" 

Emmett tilted his head. "Please. I can do anything." 


	4. Chapter IV

_“A young farmer is the very last sort of person to raise my curiosity.”_  

_i_ _._

“Are you Grace Knightley?” 

“I am.” Her father would have been relieved; this stranger at the gates had caught Grace in a rare instance of business attire. To be sure, for Grace, that meant a simple, bright dresses and flat shoes, but at least she wasn’t wearing her dusty work clothes. “Can I help you?” 

“I’m so sorry.” The stranger pushed her hair—a little too auburn for authenticity—over her shoulder and squinted in the flat oppression of the sun. She must not be from California, Grace thought. She was too pale. Even Emmett, whose cheeks had been constellated with freckles all through childhood, had finally gotten tan—just in time to leave for New England. But the stranger was speaking again. “I’m Marnie. Marnie Elton. I just moved here from Hollywood.” 

“Born and raised?” Grace inquired, very mildly indeed. It was the closest she ever came to sarcasm. 

“No, I was…I was actually from Pennsylvania. Wanted my big break into acting. Emma Stone-style. I even tried for the hair.” 

She looked around thirty. Older than Emma Stone, at least. But Grace was used to Hollywood hopes; Julia had had a phase. She ought to be more sympathetic—wasn’t that her  _thing_? But she was a little withdrawn. Maybe she was tired. It had been a week—a month—of long nights.

“Highbury is a very nice community, if you like it out here.” 

“I do!” Marnie was enthusiastic on  _that_  point. “I’m wondering if I shouldn’t pursue more of a writing career. Journalism…I’m not sure yet. I need to get my bearings, you know. Anyway, I read a great piece about your work. On  _Slate_?” 

“Oh, yes.” Grace nodded. “I remember that.” She wasn’t usually one for notoriety, so the memory was something of a cringe.

“Changing the name from Knightley to Caballero? You have some  _cojones_ , girl. The return to your Latina roots…” 

 _You can say Mexican_ , Grace thought, but she didn’t say it aloud. She picked her battles, and like most well-meaning people, this Marnie wasn’t framing it as a battle. No; Grace was being flattered. She wasn’t fond of flattery, but she was used to being pleasant in the face of ulterior motives. “Thank you. It was important to me.” 

How important, she couldn’t say. How many questions— _what’s deported, Papa?_ —and how many answers had time given her? Giving her family name the permanence it deserved after running this farm for two generations was the least she could do.

“It’s impressive, and I had hoped to do some agritourism research out here in between you know, film roles or something—not that  _that_  worked out. I went to college for journalism—feature writing. This is something of my backup plan. Have to admit.” 

“California is cursed by a perennial Gold Rush dream, I guess,” Grace agreed, with a calm smile. 

“Hmm. Nice metaphor. But you have to admit, you’ve found your own gold mine,” Marnie sighed, with a vague gesture towards the fields. 

“Well—no,” Grace answered, slowly. “I’ve never called it gold.” 

Marnie stared at her, nonplussed for a moment, but she recovered herself quickly. “You’re an inspiration. I’m going to—what’s the saying,  _hoe my own row_? And it’s nice to have met you as the first person in this community.” 

Grace nodded slowly. “That’s…that’s kind of you. Thank you.” 

“How many live in Highbury?” 

“Maybe two hundred? We’re a tiny town. The U-Pick people are the most traffic we get.” 

“U-Pick?” Marnie’s brow rumpled in confusion. 

“Strawberries. You know, where people bring their kids, and…” It was weird, trying to explain your whole life in the face of a blank stare, but Grace did it rather frequently.

“Sounds like an  _adorable_  date idea.” Marni ran a finger across her lower lip, almost meditatively. “Speaking of  _dates_ , you seem like the kind of girl who knows some, uh, real baes.” 

“Pardon me?” Grace asked, with intentional blankness. 

“Like, eligible bachelors, you know? It’s summer! Or almost. Two months away? I can never remember.” She fluttered her hands. “I’m coming off a huge disappointment here. A girl needs some fun.” 

Grace had on her company manners. She said, as kindly as she could, “I’m happy to advise on any social joys that Highbury has to offer, but I’m too busy for the dating game.” 

She supposed it was fitting that Emmett arrived at that very moment. Not just _arrived_ , exactly. He _sauntered._  He was dressed rather insufferably, in a collared shirt that was—snug. Grace suppressed the urge to roll her eyes; if she’d been given to such immature expressions, she would have exerted herself much earlier in  _this_  particular conversation. 

“Grace!” Emmett exclaimed. He was wearing sunglasses, but she could imagine his eyes dancing all the same. “You have a  _customer_?” 

Grace said, “This is Marnie Elton. She’s new in town,” and then wondered why her ribcage seemed to be contract. 

Emmett lowered his sunglasses and set them back in place in a swift movement, and extended a hand with a smile that was ultimately charming. “Emmett Woodhouse. Are you a strawberry farmer too, Miss Elton?” 

Marnie actually giggled. “No, no. I’m an aspiring actress…well, aspired.” 

“Now an  _ex_ piring actress? I’ve been there too.” Emmett sighed dramatically. “It’s great to meet you. Although, I’m afraid I’m sloppy seconds by default—Grace is the real gem of our town.” 

“I can see that,” Marnie slipped a smile in Grace’s direction, but Grace thought it was fairly apparent that Marnie’s interest was now trained at her eye-level—that was, at Emmett’s chest. “You are all very lucky.” 

“And now you’re lucky too! You’re here. We’re a great community, we only eat strawberries and seafood, you know, things that Victorian people were allergic too. It’s really wonderful.” He waved a hand. “You’re probably petrified about how you’re going to meet people among these little stucco gingerbread houses, right?” 

“I like stucco!” 

“You lie so well.” He ruffled his hair. Did he  _know_  what he was doing? Grace tightened her jaw, and smoothed out her skirt. She felt absent from the conversation, but Emmett drew her back in. “Grace, you know Noel’s having some sort of housewarming party next week, right? Shortest honeymoon ever, what a drag. Anyway, you’re invited—I’m in charge of the guestlist—and—” he turned to Marnie—“Now so are you. Voilà. Social life.” He snapped his fingers demonstratively. 

Marnie was practically drooling. Grace felt that grating sensation between her ribs again. Marnie said, “Grace, I want to interview you sometime!” and then looked adoringly back at Emmett. “I’m driving back to town,” she said. “Where are you going?” 

Emmett scratched the back of his head. “Wasn’t really going anywhere,” he said. Then he seemed to make a decision. “But I’ll go into town with you. Show you around, if you want. I’ll be back later, Grace.” 

Marnie waved like a butterfly, flit, color,  _gone_. 

Grace stood still, feeling the earth move beneath her. 

 _Wasn’t really going anywhere._  

 _No, dumbass. You were coming here._  

She pushed the thought away as Marnie’s jeep, parked on the shoulder of the road, spun off in a cloud of dust. Emmett was always keen for new interests. It seemed he’d found one. 

_ii._

“Why didn’t _you_ go to Hollywood?”

She was very eager. He had seen that at a glance. It would be excellently suited to certain purposes, but trying to be eager with Grace was a losing proposition. Of course, there was no way Marnie could have known that. He hid a smile, and said vaguely, “Oh—I’m more of the sketchy art type…drawing, painting, scribbling lines that have no meaning.”

“Amazing.”

He grinned now, more for his own benefit than hers.  “I promise, it’s colder up here, but not altogether dismal.” At least, he hoped it wasn’t. He hadn’t come back for _dismal_.

“I went to school for journalism,” she confided. “And now…”

Now, he didn’t know what journalism had to do with Highbury. But she was clearly friendly, and lonely, and Emmett, as always, had a plan. That very morning Harry had alarmed him spectacularly.  

"We need to find you a girlfriend," Emmett had announced, with a speculative glance. "Highbury has enough perennial bachelors, namely, one. Namely, me." 

"You're single?" Harry's eyes had all but popped out of his head. 

Emmett’s self-superiority was always expertly conveyed in a glance. "Don't think I haven't had my chances. I'm just...I have no real interest." Which wasn’t to say that there hadn’t been girls at college—there had—or that there hadn’t been little glass chips in a all-too-glassy heart. There _had_. But it wasn’t part of the plan.

"What about Grace?" 

He had paused, at that, and laughed. Whether pause or laugh meant more, he hadn't bothered deciding. "What about her?" 

"You talk about her so much. I was sure you were dating." 

"Nope, just siblings." Which was the company line, and technically true ever since Ike and Julia made their tumultuous match. Emmett had thrown himself off the garden bench, turned the conversation back to its original point. “The project here is _you_.”

Harry had turned scarlet. Emmett had said, unblinking, “So there’s someone already.”

Not a _surprise_ , exactly. Harry was handsome. Pleasant. Not particularly bright, so, pretty easy to lead. But “someone” wasn’t supposed to be Rosa Martinez.

“The _farmhand?_ ”

It had all spilled out then. He’d gotten terribly lost when he first came to Highbury, trying to find his way to the bank—“I’m awful at directions”—until Rosa Martinez pointed him in the right direction and somehow invited him to a family dinner in one breath. He’d been inseparable from the whole clan of them ever since. There were two brothers, apparently. Teenagers, but Harry liked them a lot. They had driven down to Santa Cruz for a weekend at the beach. It had been great fun. He saw them all the time—this was emphasized repeatedly. Harry tended to repeat things. “Well, until now,” Harry had admitted. “Haven’t seen so much of ‘em since we started hanging out. Which is—which is great! It’s cool, man. But they’re really the best. Just the nicest people ever.”

Emmett was sure that the Martinezes were pleasant. Solid workers, at least. And, well—he’d give them the same due he’d give himself. People were ambitious, whatever Grace said about goodhearted intentions.

For Emmett, that meant he liked to run the world of his choosing. For someone like Rosa Martinez…well, she probably wouldn’t mind a green-card marriage, or whatever it was called.

Of course, it had nothing to do with _race_. It wasn’t about class, either—this was America, dammit, and Emmett wasn’t so high and mighty as to pretend that his own position in society was broadly recognized by many outside of Highbury. Grace would preach, if she heard these thoughts aloud, but the point was, Harry Smith was moving up in the world, and Rosa Martinez spent dawn till dusk picking strawberries.

All of which was to the point that this bright-haired Hollywood hopeful, with her tooth-paste grin and sweet laugh, was the answer to Emmett’s prayers. Not that those prayers were directed to any deity in particular—Emmett’s gods were confined to the tangible sphere.

He chattered along as Marnie Elton drove (very slowly) to Highbury. It was a fine, bright day out—not too hot, for once. He liked the stiff breezes; wind was always mischievously kind to his hair, and did wonders if you were in the habit of stoic gazing, which he was (though never for very long, since it got boring).

Marnie dropped him off at Hartfield, by his request. He had spent the past fifteen minutes telling her about Harry, and all his charms, and now her eyes were quite alight.

To be fair, she _was_ looking at his house. That might have contributed.

“Not too shabby, is it?”

“Not too shabby at all.” She grinned up at him, and Emmett thought again, how well she and Harry would get on.

Emmett, as always, had a plan.

 


	5. Chapter V

_“You are so much used to live alone, that you do not know the value of a companion.”_

_i._

Noel Taylor and Ashley Weston-Taylor returned to Highbury in style—in style, because the Woodhouses threw their welcome-back party.

It was a striking concession from Mrs. Woodhouse, though Grace was not wholly surprised. Emmett was extraordinarily persuasive, and Mrs. Woodhouse had always had a special fondness for Noel. Mrs. Woodhouse had a special fondness for anyone who ultimately worshiped her son.

Grace had never disliked Noel, only his opinions. He seemed happy with Ashley. Then again, she’d never seen Noel _unhappy_. He just…existed.

Ashley Weston had a loud laugh and kind eyes. Grace had always liked her. Grace liked most people. That was half the trouble. Living with them was the other half.

Paco was mournful when he watched her leave. She was wearing earrings, of all things! She had tamed her hair and cleaned the soil from her hands and wondered too many times if Emmett would say anything about how she looked.

It was not that she was—no. It was never that. It was simply that everyone seemed to be a planet in orbit around him, and Grace always wondered how she was holding up as a peripheral galaxy.

There. There was a flight of fancy that would please him.

Hartfield House was flooded with light and laughter. Emmett was somehow managing to hold a glass of champagne like a cigarette as he held court over the assembled young and young-ish crowd of Highbury. He was kicking his heels lightly against the railing of the porch. Effortlessly, or at least it looked that way—but he’d never scuff a flake of Hartfield paint.

Grace switched the bottle of wine from her right hand to her left, hoping it hadn’t left her fingers too cold if she had to shake hands with anyone. Emmett, of course, hugged her, shaking off his adoring throng. He smelled a little like alcohol and a little like cologne, and Grace forced herself not to dig her nails into his shoulders.

“You look so regal,” Emmett said.

“I’m wearing a sundress.”

“The sun queen.”

“OK.” Grace ducked away from him and went inside to greet Mrs. Woodhouse. There was a buzz in her ears.

Mrs. Woodhouse was pretending to be languid, though Grace could tell that she was in her element. “I wish you’d brought some of those strawberries, dear,” she sighed. “Everything here is so unhealthy. I told the boys not to—but they insisted on cake. Cake! The wedding is already _over_. Why do we have to revisit all of it again?”

“I think people are taking pretty small slices,” Grace reassured her. “And you know Emmett never likes much cake anyway.”

“No-o…just the icing.”

Well, she couldn’t exactly lie about his sweet-tooth to his mother. “I’ll keep an eye on things, Mrs. Woodhouse.”

“Would you? So kind…” But Mrs. Woodhouse’s attention as swiftly diverted, since Arthur Bates had arrived. He sat down beside her to effuse about her role as hostess, and no doubt to fill her in on the happenings in the town since…Wednesday, or what have you, and Grace drifted away.

Her name was called a moment later. It wasn’t Emmett’s voice—Emmett was entertaining an audience of interchangeable faces, centered around Marnie Elton and Harry Smith.

“Hello, Noel,” Grace said. She hugged him. “Congratulations.”

“Not miffed about the destination wedding? I’m sorry you couldn’t come.”

“I was sorry to miss it, but you shouldn’t apologize to me! It looked beautiful, from the pictures, and Emmett filled me in.”

“It’s such a change.” Noel shook his head, almost in disbelief. “Four years of wild times—well, his times were wild, but only as they should be.”

“Hmm.” Grace’s eyebrows flicked a little, and she turned her glass in her hand.

“Ah. I forgot who I was speaking to.” Noel was too pleasant to be wry, but he came close.

“I’m—we are glad to have him back in Highbury,” Grace said, wondering if it had been worth it to correct the pronoun. “I just hope he that he can do something valuable with his time, Noel. You know that’s all I ever want.”

Someone bolder might have said, _is it?_ But Noel only chuckled. “Don’t start in on Emmett.”

“He has so much potential,” Grace said, turning the cool bowl of her wineglass in her hand. “I know you and I both know _that_. He’s just—never been tested. He was such a bright kid. He’s only grown brighter, but…he never seeks out the kinds of people and pastimes that would—”

“So, he had some free rein,” Noel conceded, with a shrug. “Need I remind you? Kid lost his dad when he was ten.”

Grace had been twelve, then. Of course she remembered. Before—the gray months flying by. And after—well, after was all the same. Emmett never spoke about his father. “Noel, it’s been a few years since we had a proper talk,” she said. “Not forever. I haven’t forgotten the family history.”

He shifted uncomfortably, and she felt a pang.

“I’m sorry,” she said, more warmly. “It really isn’t up to me to be spoiling your party with my worries. Don’t—”

Noel put an arm around her. “Grace. Please. As if I would ever be angry with you except as Emmett’s friend.”

He dashed off in the crowd, and Grace was left with a little taste of bitterness on her tongue at those final words.

“Are you and Noel _fighting_?” Emmett said, close by her ear, and appearing almost out of nowhere. He propped an elbow lightly on her shoulder and grinned crookedly. “He just got married, Grace. Give him a break.”

“You know we only argue about you.” She removed his elbow from her shoulder. She felt sorry; she hadn’t meant to get into it with Noel at his reception. What had prompted her? Oh yes, perhaps it was Emmett’s two latest satellites—Marnie, who seemed slightly too scheming, and Harry, who had never dreamt up a scheme in his life.

“That’s the wonder of it.” Emmett smirked. “Tell me everything. What’s my latest fault?”

“I’m not here to lecture,” Grace said. “I’m just…” She didn’t know how to put it into words, how empty it was watching Harry copy Emmett’s every move and mood. How it stung to see Marnie Elton circling vulture-like—

Perhaps that was unkind.

“You’re always here to lecture,” Emmett observed. He reached up and knotted those clever fingers in his tie, tugging it loose. He was all lines and angles and temptation, always had been.

Grace curved her fingers around the edge of the rail. “Maybe I’m too tired tonight.”

She could have sworn he looked disappointed.

“Emmett!” Harry darted towards them, followed closely by Marnie. Emmett seemed pleased by that, though Grace couldn’t quite put it together yet. What was going on? Emmett had never been one to flirt at anyone in particular. How could this frayed-at-the-edges—but that was unkind. Grace smoothed a hand over her skirt, sipped her drink, and let Harry and Marnie take him away.

She couldn’t do anything about Marnie. She hadn’t the right. But Harry—what she had wanted to say to Noel, quite simply, was this: _is Harry your equal?_ Noel had barely kept up with Emmett, and Harry was no Noel. Emmett needed challenge in friendship, but he never sought it out.

To be sure, he had her—but he had always had her.

He never had to ask.

_ii._

Grace seemed troubled. That prickled his brain for a bit, but then he ruffled his hair in a demonstrative gestures and had another glass of champagne.

Harry bounded up to him, with a plate laden with cake. "Emmett, Marnie's looking for you."

"What happened to keeping her entertained?" He plucked the plate out of Harry's hands and deposited it on a side table. "You don't need that."

Harry eyed it regretfully but followed along willingly enough. Marnie was nibbling on a strawberry, careful of her lipstick. Emmett tried to remember what color lipstick Grace had been wearing. He didn't think she'd been wearing any.

"This party is beautiful," she said. "Like something out… _Vanity Fair_."

"Mag or novel?" Emmett asked. "Spoiler alert: I only read one."

Marnie laughed, high and tinkly. "And here I thought you were a great reader, with all those books in your house."

"That was the plan." Emmett smirked. "Didn't quite work out. I'm always  _meaning_  to read more." He'd been meaning to read more since he was twelve, but it never exactly happened. "I've read the first chapter—maybe even two—of almost every classic novel you can name."

"Classic lit  _is_  dull," Marnie agreed eagerly. "I feel like you're the kind of guy who…speaks more to art, I guess."

"Well so everyone else felt, too," Emmett said, grinning. A moment ago she had been so sure he was a reader, but he didn't bother pointing that out. "But the trouble is,  _everything_  bores me after a while. Classic or not."

Marnie swept her lashes down, then up, and rubbed her arms, changing the subject. "Mmm, it's chilly."

Emmett saw an opportunity. He tipped his head at Harry, trying to signal him with an eyebrow and a nod, but Harry was not exactly subtle. Emmett gave up. "Harry, give her your jacket." Not smooth, but it got the job done.

Harry stared at him for another half second and then complied.

Marnie hugged the jacket around herself, and said, looking at Emmett, "That's  _so_  thoughtful."

 _Point to Harry_ , Emmett thought, and was satisfied with himself.

He extracted himself as soon as possible so that they could talk alone and wandered back inside, to where the happy couple was making their rounds.

"You having a good time?" Noel asked, topping off his glass.

Emmett quirked a brow. "It's your party." Of course, he was proud of it—it was positively picturesque here, with golden warmth and tinkling glass within, and smoky, breeze-sketched darkness without. But it  _was_ for Noel. "Are  _you_?"

"Of course." Noel's eyes tracked around the room until they landed on Grace, who was listening to Lucas Goddard with her usual inscrutable patience. "Grace is worried about you."

"Grace is  _always_  worried about me," Emmett said, not dissatisfied with the prospect of this comforting constant. "What is it now?"

As ever, Noel conceded to his curiosity. "I imagine it has something to do with your newfound friends."

"Harry's solid as a rock. What's the matter with him?"

"She didn't say that, exactly…she's just talking about your potential." Noel shook his head. "I shouldn't have bothered you about it."

"It's no bother," Emmett said. He wasn't going to say it to Noel, but the past four years had had something of…well, a hollowness, without Grace. Apparently he thrived on her perpetual disapproval. He didn't investigate the thought further. "Your beloved is coming over. I'll leave you two lovebirds alone and check on Mom."

Mom was having a grand old time, though she would have denied it. For someone who hated socializing due to all the  _germs_ —she did enjoy the occasional chance to play queen for an evening.

He was her prince. He understood.

"Emmett, you haven't had any cake, have you?" she demanded, in an agonized tone.

"Just the icing," he murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "No, Mom—really. I've had chicken salad and cucumber sandwiches."

"I had my doubts about that chicken."

"I made sure everything was inspected beforehand." He sat down beside her. "Mom, what do you think of Harry?"

Mom said, "He's a very sweet boy."

"Mm. Yeah. He seems like a good kid." The good kid was actually two years older than he was, Emmett had discovered, but age was hardly a determinant of wisdom.

"He isn't anything to you, of course."

"Of course not. I'm better than everyone," Emmett returned, smiling winsomely. Mom beamed at him.

"Yes, you are."

"Speaking of people I've outshone, when is Ike coming? I want to see him before I get tired of the notion."

Mom sighed deeply, picking at her apple slices. No fine buffet spread for her. "I keep telling him to come down, but you know the baby is so often sick—"

Ike and Julia had one of the healthiest babies in existence. Emmett patted her hand. "Don't worry about it. I'll call him or text him or whatever." Through the window to the porch, he caught sight of Harry, talking on his phone. What had happened to Marnie?

Emmett sprang up. "I'll be back, Mom."

When Harry saw him he murmured, "I have to go," and tucked his phone in his pocket. Even in the blue light of evening, Emmett could see that he was blushing.

"Who was that?" Emmett inquired, with intentional innocence.

"Sorry…I shouldn't have been, uh, talking a-at a party, I just, she was only free now—"

"She?"

Harry stared at the ground. The flush was all the way up to his hairline. Emmett almost felt sorry for him.

"Rosa Martinez," he said, so Harry didn't have to.

"Yeah," Harry mumbled.

Emmett calculated. "Harry," he said, coaxingly, "You can talk to whoever you want."

"Really?"

A beat. "Yes," Emmett said, clapping an arm around him and leading him back into the house. "Dude, I'm just trying to introduce you to more people. You lived here what—a year?—before I came back, and you know like _one_  family. So I'm just expanding your social circle. And I'm sure Rosa is very…nice. I mean, I may have met her already, a few times, but I don't really remember." He let that sink in, then added, in a kindly way, "Look around. These can be your people."

Harry let out a puff of breath. "I just—I don't think I fit in."

"Did you see how Marnie was standing so close to you? How she thought it was  _so_  nice that you gave her your jacket? That's not an accident, man. Chicks dig you. And there's a lot in this world. Hell, even in this _town_ , small though it is."

"Like Grace," Harry said.

Emmett shifted, grimaced for effect. "Grace is kind of  _too_  perfect," he said, though he made sure she wasn't in hearing distance when he said it. "You can't ask everyone to measure up to Grace. But—hey, take Marnie. She's hot. Fun. Interested in you."

"You  _think_ so?"

"I know so. I'm an expert at reading body language." Emmett filched a strawberry from the buffet table and bit into it, winking at Marnie across the room as he did so. She waved excitedly. He turned back to Harry, making a show of nonchalance. "See? She keeps looking over here."

Harry smiled. He had a slow smile, but it was a nice one. Definitely the kind of smile girls would want to tease out of him. "Wow. How do you…know all this?"

"Instinct. But not everyone  _has_  instinct. You just have to acquire the right skills."

Harry was piling his plate again. Emmett took it from him and put it down again. "Here. Go bring Marnie some strawberries."

Harry said, "I still don't get why you're single, dude."

Grace was leaving. Emmett watched her kiss his mother goodbye, watched her shake hands with Arthur Bates and move towards the door, her dress swinging around her.

He shrugged in Harry's direction, suddenly distracted. "It's what makes me so interesting," he said.


	6. Chapter VI

_"Almost too gallant to be in love…but I suppose there may be a hundred different ways of being in love."_

_i._

"I'm sorry, Miss Caballero. You're busy."

Grace practically had to run after her. "Rosa! What's going on?"

Rosa stopped in the hall. Paco paraded around her, excited to have a visitor.

"You don’t have to call me 'Miss.' You know that." Grace switched to Spanish, hoping it would be more comfortable. "Why don't you come into the office?"

Rosa swallowed hard and followed her in. Grace didn't sit at the desk; she pulled up two of the low-back chairs.

"So," she said. "It's your day off. You shouldn’t be _thinking_  about strawberries, except to eat them."

Rosa twisted the curly end of her braid around her fingers. "It's not about work."

"Oh?" Grace wondered what had happened, that would bring Rosa here alone. She was visiting the Martinezes that evening for dinner—was it something too serious to wait until then?

"I'm being stupid. I just…I didn't know who else to talk to. The boys don't—"

"Hmm." Grace propped her chin on her hands. "Is this the reason you've been trying to brush up on English? There's a guy, right?" Normally, she liked to stay quiet when people spoke, but Rosa was clearly nervous and it was important to put her at ease.

Rosa nodded. "I knew you'd know. Yes, there's a guy. I met him last summer, and he's friends with my brothers, and he's friends with me…or at least I thought that's all we were, but lately…I don't know. I really like him. And I think he likes me."

"That's pretty great, isn't it?" Not that she, of course, would know.

Rosa was toying with a frayed thread at the edge of her shorts. "I think he's too good for me."

Grace shook her head. "Rosa, I promise you: if anything, it's the other way around."

That got a little smile out of Rosa. She sighed, and said, "I wouldn't have come to you, except, he asked me out. Like a real date. Not just a movie with my brothers. He asked me to dinner."

"Are you going to go?"

"Yes. But—I don't know. I don't have anything—" Rosa stopped herself, and drew herself up. "I'm not sure if it's worth it."

 _She doesn't have anything to wear_. Grace let that rest for a moment. "If you really like him, and he likes you, there's nothing wrong with a date. You've known him for a while. You trust him? He's not just a pretty face?"

"No, no!" Rosa was blushing. "I mean, he  _is_ cute…but he's so kind."

"Do I get to know his name?" Grace queried.

"Harry. Harry Smith."

Grace controlled her expression. "Harry Smith?"

"You know him, right? He's friends with Mr. Emmett."

 _Is he ever_. "Yes, I've met him. He seems…" He seemed a little vacant, but other than thinking him very unequal to a friendship with Emmett, Grace didn't have much opinion on him. "You said he's kind?"

"So kind. He comes and reads to my grandma. You know her eyes are bad. He has dinner with us and once he tried to cook but—" Rosa smiled fondly at the memory. "He can't cook at all. He hasn't visited so much, since he started…well, since he became friends with Mr. Emmett, and I thought maybe it was over but he called me last night and asked me to dinner." She frowned, and Grace realized that Rosa was watching her face closely. "Do you think it's not good?"

Grace shook her head. "Believe me, Rosa, any worry you see on my face has to do with Emmett, not Harry. It sounds like you know him a lot better than I do. Did you say yes?"

"I said maybe." Rosa sighed. Her jaw tightened a little and Grace recognized it as pride, as not wanting to say more.

"I think we're the same size," she said, very casually. "I don't go on very many dates—none at all, really. And I was silly enough to buy a dress that would be perfect for a dinner. If you want it, it's yours."

Rosa stared down. "I couldn't, mis—I mean, I just couldn't. Thank you."

"It would be doing me a favor," Grace said, keeping her voice calm. "Every day I have to stare at it in my closet, reminding me that I'm all alone in the world." She sighed very dramatically, hoping it would lighten Rosa's mood.

"What…what color is it?"

"Red. Perfect for you. Red for Rosa."

Rosa chewed her lip. Then she said. "Do you think it's OK to text him? I told him I would let him know today."

"Yeah, that should be fine." Grace stood up. "Do you want to see it first? If you don't like it, you don't have to take it."

She knew Rosa wouldn't be wholly convinced until she tried it on. When she did, Grace knew I was all over.

"Let me know if you want some shoes, too," she said, folding up the dress to wrap in a garment bag.

"I have sandals," Rosa said. Her whole face was aglow. "I can't thank you en—"

"Oh, but you have!" Grace assured her. "Remember what I said? Think of me crying myself to sleep over being single. It will be a little easier now."

Rosa said, "You're not really…"

"I'm teasing," Grace said. "I'm content with being on my own. There's always work to do. But sometimes it  _is_ good to give away a dream that isn't meant to be ours."

Rosa nodded. She was practically hugging the dress when she went away, and Grace settled back to her Saturday morning bookkeeping with a smile on her face.

Of course, it had been an act. The dress had been a pretty one, but she hadn't bought it for any date. Grace had no interest in romance—not since her parents moved away, leaving her with an empire of responsibility. For all Julia's prodding, there just wasn't the time.

And she never cried herself to sleep.

_ii._

Emmett's plan was proceeding better than expected. Harry was at Hartfield almost evening, and Marnie was increasingly finding excuses to turn up with him. Since moving to Highbury, she had apparently managed to do some freelance journalism—for what publications, Emmett did not know—and declared Harry her best guide. Emmett wondered why she didn't use the excuse to find more  _alone_ time with Harry; for some reason she preferred to come to Hartfield house. But maybe she liked having a third person around.

Some people lacked his inherent confidence.

All in all, it wasn't scintillating company, but it was almost enough for summer. When he wasn’t working, Harry was up for anything; Marnie was never far behind, and now that Noel and Ashley were back in town there were trips to the beach, hikes, and long, lazy weekends spent doing nothing much.  

At those times, he told himself that his fears of isolation were abated; and then reminded himself that he had no such thing as  _fears_.

"Do you still draw?" Harry asked, on the Saturday after the party. They were talking about their interests; or they had been. Emmett had had considerably more interests than Harry, although he had thrown them all aside in disgust for one reason or another.

"Not really." Emmett yawned. "College beat it out of me, I guess." But ennui did not deny talent. He added lightly, "I still have all my old stuff."

Harry responded without further cue. "Can I see it?"

"I  _guess_. None of it's very good."

Which might or might not have been true, but there was no harm in letting other people form their own opinions. Harry's opinion was overwhelmingly favorable, and the study distracted him from his phone, over which he had been smiling rather secretively.

"These are amazing," he said reverently, flipping through the half-finished sketches. "You're a regular…Picasso."

"God, I hope not. Guernica is like having the flu in visual form."

Harry looked vague, but he followed up with, "Are these all of people you know?"

"Yes. I didn't—" Emmett almost said that he didn't know many people, thus the pool was a limited one, but that must  _never_  be true. "I only drew portraits of my close friends and family," he amended. "So there's a lot of the same people." He picked up (arguably) the finest one; a painting of Julia, half-finished. "This was the last one I did, outside of college. It was supposed to be a wedding present, but Ike thought it wasn't pretty enough. I got pissed and gave him a watch instead."

"A watch?"

"What? It was a Cartier."

 "Oh," Harry stumbled over his words, "Of course. I didn't mean—that sounds perfect."

"I hope he regrets it, but my brother frets. He doesn't dwell on anything." Emmett threw the picture aside. "Anyway, maybe I had a hand for it at one point…"

"…you're a genius!"

"…but I never went anywhere with it. Artist's fickleness, I suppose."

"I wish you'd draw something now," Harry said rapturously. "These are so legit, man. It would be incredible to watch you."

Emmett mused on this. Out the window, he could see Marnie coming up the driveway, carrying something. "Hey, I could draw you. You have a nice profile."

"I do?" Harry said. "Um, OK." He looked a little embarrassed.

"Dude, I'm an artist. I'm not into you." Emmett chuckled. "Also, Marnie's here. This will be perfect."

"Marnie's here?"

"In a minute, yeah." Sure enough, the doorbell chimed.

Emmett answered the door, sketchpad in hand.

"I don't mean to bother you," Marnie said, though of course she  _did_. "I just…well, I wanted to bring over a bottle of wine to thank you for such a lovely party the other day. I…" Her voice trailed away when she saw Harry in the hallway.

"I was just about to do a sketch of Harry," Emmett said. "Want to watch? I'm no Bob Ross—I just don't have the hair for it—but I'll try to make it interesting."

Marnie needed no further prompting. She set the bottle on an end table and they all went into the sunroom. It had the best natural light, facing west, and there was a window seat.

"Sit there," Emmett commanded. "Marnie, you have to make sure he stays still."

Marnie took her task seriously. Perhaps a little  _too_  seriously; as Emmett sketched, she was constantly checking on his progress. Perhaps she still felt self-conscious about her enthusiasm for Harry, and was trying to spread it around to draw attention away from her feelings. Whatever it was, her endless compliments were more intentional than Harry's, and Emmett found them somewhat grating.

But through the hours of late afternoon, he couldn't help but congratulate himself on his own perception. Harry might be a little less than bright, and Marnie might be somewhat tiring, but _Harry_ would never be tired by her. They would be perfect together. Grace might mock the role of matchmaker—or if not quite  _mock_ , as Grace would never stoop so low, at least  _criticize_ —but there was something inherently satisfying in watching people fit together.

"Alright, my hand's cramping," he said at last. "This is as good as it's getting today."

Harry was almost unable to string a sentence together. "Wow," he said. "It looks like me."

"It's not terrible," Emmett admitted. He was happy to deprecate himself; it always left more room for other people's praise.

Marnie clasped her hands together. Oh, she was terribly transparent, Emmett thought amusedly. Showing up with a bottle of wine on the pretense of a brief thank you and then staying for three hours. Nice. "This should be framed when you finish," she said. "It's truly remarkable. I've never seen  _anything_  like it." She paused, nibbling at her lower lip, and then said, "But I'm sure it's no fun holding still for that long, Harry. I could—I don't know. Read to you, or something, tomorrow."

Emmett answered before Harry could. "That would be excellent," he said. "No classic literature, please God. But the greatest excerpts of  _People_  magazine won't go amiss."

"Are you drawing again?"

Emmett spun around; Grace was standing in the doorway. She had a book in her hand, and it  _was_  classic literature.  _Anna Karenina_ , in fact.

"Just a little," he said. "Harry's very patient."

Grace's smile seemed to bloom over her face. "I'm so glad," she said, coming forward. "Hello, Harry. Hello, Marnie. Sorry to interrupt—I just came to return your Mom's book, Em."

He tried to look like nothing in the entire world mattered. "What do you think?"

"Hmm." Grace narrowed her eyes a little, studying the drawing. "You've made his nose too long."

Emmett had, but would not admit it. "Are you saying Harry has a short nose?"

Grace lifted an eyebrow at him, and said calmly, "Well, shorter than that."

"Every feature is perfect," Marnie said sharply. "That is  _exactly_  Harry's nose. It's as close as a photograph."

Both of Grace's eyebrows went up this time, but she did not snap back. "I'm glad you like it," she said. Somehow, because it was Grace, she didn't sound condescending when she very well  _could_  have. "Emmett knows I'm very sparing with my praise."

"And therefore you never spare  _me_ ," Emmett said, with a laugh. "Are you staying for dinner? These two are."

"We are?" Harry asked, and Emmett rolled his eyes.

"It was assumed."

"I shouldn't," Grace said. "I'm actually having dinner with the Martinezes." She said the name distinctly. Harry turned beet-red. Emmett wondered if Grace knew, and how, and if she was making a point, but he wasn't going to let it become one.

"No problem," he said easily. "I won't keep you, then."

A little flicker of  _something_  passed over Grace's face, but he couldn't make it out. And that was probably why he'd never successfully sketched her likeness.


	7. Chapter VII

_"It is not a state to be safely entered into without doubtful feelings, with half a heart."_

_i._

Caballero Farms, aside from its seasonal tourism, shipped most of its produce out to national suppliers. But Grace had always been fond of her mother's inclination to sell cartons of berries, and kept it up. She manned the stand herself, and it offered good summer jobs to the local teenagers, especially those who were daunted by field work.

She was reading under the counter on a Friday afternoon, when a shadow fell over her. She looked up.

"Harry?"

Harry shifted from one foot to another, but his smile was less awkward than his stance. "Hello, Grace. I came to buy some berries."

Grace tilted her head. "You look nice."

"I have a date." He ducked his head. "With Rosa? She works here, you know."

"I do know." Grace smiled back. He was a little less vacant than usual, she thought. Maybe the energy of Emmett's companionship  _had_  done him some good. "Rosa is a good friend of mine and a wonderful employee. She deserves a nice time."

"She—she's great," Harry said. "I thought…do you think it would be weird if I bought her some strawberries? I thought it would be fun, but maybe she's sick of 'em, after spending all day…"

Grace stood up and picked up one of the prettier baskets. She had artfully arranged some of the choicest specimens in it less than an hour ago. "I don't think it's weird at all. It's a nice gesture. Just don't eat them all before dinner, or you'll be full."

Harry nodded seriously. "Of course."

Grace waved a hand over his proffered money. "On the house. Where are you taking her? I've seen the dress she's wearing. It's very cute."

Harry turned as red as the dress in question. "I was going to take her a little ways out of town…do you know  _El Loco's_?"

"I'm Mexican."

"Uh…"

"I mean yes, I know it," Grace said, laughing a little. "It's pretty authentic. I think she'll really like it. Have a nice time."

Harry beamed. "Thank you so much," he said. "I really appreciate it, Grace."

He  _had_  improved. Well, she'd had her doubts at first, and as long as Emmett and his self-styled Midas touch were involved, she would continue to be apprehensive. But Harry seemed sweet, and while he wouldn't do for  _her_ , she saw no reason why Rosa shouldn't be happy.

"Don't you think it's a  _sign_?" Julia demanded that night, on the phone.

"Don't I think  _what's_  a sign?" Grace asked, around her toothbrush.

"Emmett's protégé and your protégé getting together. Is  _everyone_  going to hook up before the two of you do?"

"Shut up. Also, Rosa isn't my protégé. She's my employee, and my friend. Harry is…Emmett's project. Hopefully he's too goodhearted and simple for it to end badly."

"You said he's a nice boy. And you're always hard on Emmett."

"Not too hard."

Julia laughed. "I didn’t say that. Emmett's a complete ass most of the time. He totally deserves all the coals you rake him over."

"Wow, melodramatic." Grace sat down on the edge of her bed and pushed the towel on her head back up into place. She never wrapped her wet hair as expertly as Julia did. "OK, so, how's baby?"

"He is still crying a lot. But he smiles at me."

She could hear the satisfaction in Julia's voice. "I can't wait to see him again."

"Is that your hint to visit?"

"You have your Woodhouse, I have mine. It's nice having you around to put them both in place."

"Aha!" Julia's voice snapped triumphantly. "You called him  _yours_."

"I never said he wasn't mine," Grace said quietly. "I'm just not going to marry him."

"Whatever," Julia said. Grace could hear her eyeroll. "The little monster's crying again. At least he's a  _cute_  little monster."

Grace stared at the ceiling after Julia hung up. Hopefully Rosa and Harry were having a good time…hopefully Emmett was doing  _something_ productive, for once. She had been glad to see him sketch again. Despite his half-promises to his mother, it would have been a waste. He  _had_  talent. He only lacked motivation.

So why was she always so reluctant to compliment him? Would it really do any harm, to shower him with compliments like the rest of them did?

It was no use asking the question, even. She had always known it would.

Paco padded in and leapt up beside her, turning round three times as though he was still a delicate puppy, not a lug of a dog. Grace reached up and patted his head. "I am a fool," she said aloud, to Paco, or to the moonlight, or to someone else who couldn't hear. "But only by myself."

_ii._

It came to Emmett's attention that Mr. Goddard was of two minds about the friendship that had sprung up between Hartfield House and Harry. On the one hand, it was good for Harry to have any kind of association with the richest family in several counties; on the other, Harry was more distracted at work than ever.

"I wish I could quit being a bank teller," he said. "I'd rather bag groceries."

"Don't say that," Emmett said, in a panic at the thought of any friend of his being involved in such menial labor. Bank work, anywhere below the executive level, was bad enough.

"Or," Harry proposed, still a bit gloomy, "I wish I could be like you, and not have to work at all."

"Then you would have the boring business of being rich," said Emmett, who had never thought it a boring business at all. It wasn't  _money_ , that left people alone. It was—well, it was just the way the world ran on.

"Anyway," Harry admitted, "I do have to work. Otherwise I won't be able to…" and then he trailed off, as he often did, with a dreamy look in his eyes which Emmett distrusted.

After several days of Harry's patience, Marnie's tinny reading, and Emmett's fickle erasures, the sketch was finished and framed. Marnie had a friend who did that sort of thing. Everyone admired it—Mrs. Woodhouse adored it—except for Grace, who would only say that Harry had done a good job of sitting for it.

During the weeks, Harry's work shifts still left Emmett without much to do during the day. Grace was working; Noel was working; he thought of visiting Ike and Julia, and then tossed the idea aside. He didn't want to seem desperate. Then, too, there was plenty to do each evening. He just had to get through the days.

Excitement came soon enough, however—and not entirely unexpectedly.

Harry practically burst the front door one Saturday morning. He'd been mysteriously "unavailable" the night before, and Emmett had been annoyed over it.  Now, it seemed, an explanation was in the offing.

"I need to talk to you," Harry said. "I went out on a date with Rosa Martinez last night, I took her to dinner, and then we drove—we just  _drove_. And then I—I—I kissed her. I didn't know why, I just did. And now…now she's sent me  _this_." He waved his phone.

Emmett said, with what he considered to be admirable calm, "What is  _this_?"

"She told me she's in love with me."

It was incredibly frustrating, Emmett discovered, when other people wouldn't do what they should with their lives.  _He_ could see it all clearly; really, it was spelled out in Christmas lights for anyone with two grams of sense. But Harry was naïve, for all that he was  _Grace's_  age.  

Emmett thought fast. "Oh, shit," he said, sympathetically. "Well, you can be a man about it and let her down gently. There's a way to word anything."

Harry stopped short, almost dropping his phone. "You think I should tell her I'm…not interested?"

Emmet's eyebrows shot up. "Hold up. I would never—no, no. I would never tell you how to feel. Go with your gut, dude. I guess I just assumed…never mind."

Harry sat down heavily on one of the sofas. "Wow," he said. "I…I don't know…"

"You mean you want to date her," Emmett said. "Till death do us part, and all that. If that's what you really want, that's completely cool. I guess that's an easier text to write, at least."

Harry stared at the ground and said nothing.

Emmett sat down beside him and said, as kindly as he could, "Hey, we're guys. Our emotions are simple to nonexistent. So—I'm just of the mind that if a guy really likes a girl, he's not going to feel uncertain about it. It just sort of  _is_. I guess I misread you showing up here. I assumed you wouldn't need a second opinion if you were into her."

"I always need a second opinion," Harry said, and sighed. "Do you…do you want to read it? I don't know what to do now."

Emmett took his phone and read the text. It was long. God, why didn't people just write letters anymore? At least pen and paper had a certain elegance. But he could admit to himself that he was surprised. Her English was good. She didn't seem super clingy; just sincere.

"It's a nice sentiment," he said at last. "I don't see you two—headed in the same direction, but she certainly seems like a nice girl." Which indeed, he had already thought _and_ acknowledged.

"She  _is_." Harry buried his face in his hands.

Emmett patted him lightly on the shoulder—he hated touching people, unless it was Mom, or Grace—and said, "If she is the nicest girl you can think of…the one you find yourself spending the most time with…"

"Well there's also Marnie," Harry said. He sounded defeated. "I'm so freaking  _confused_  now. I thought I liked Rosa—and I  _do_. Her family's great, and she's so sweet, and I have a great time when I'm with her, and she's beautiful…"

"This has to be your decision," Emmett told him, quite firmly. "It isn't the rest of  _my_  life."

"The rest of my life?"

"She's Catholic, right?" Emmett said. "I mean, from what I know of her…background and everything, she's not going to be a one-date type of commitment."

"Oh," Harry said. "Well, we've been friends for a year, and I do really like her…" He sat in silence for a few moments, rolling his phone between his hands.

Emmett said nothing. Most people wouldn't understand what he was doing now; but it was kind to be cruel, at the moment. It was for Harry's own good.

Finally, Harry heaved a sigh. "I think…I think I should let her go," he said. "I think maybe she and I don't want the same things."

Emmett thought of asking,  _are you sure?_ , and then thought better of it.

"You made the right decision," he said, emphatically.

The furrow disappeared from Harry's forehead. "You really think so?"

"I didn't want to influence you," Emmett said gravely, "But I think you're in the right. It wouldn't be fair to either of you, to keep this going. Especially not now."

"Not now?"

God, he could be so dense. Emmett liked him, but he could be dense. "Marnie," he said. "Marnie is  _totally_ head-over-heels for you, dude. You really want to blow that shot?"

"I keep thinking that she likes  _you_ , though," Harry said.

"Me? Please. She's just using the convenience of you having a friend to have it be less awkward. Trust me, dude."

Harry nodded, but he still looked a bit dejected.

"Let's go out for drinks," Emmett said. "Seriously, it's something to celebrate. I didn't exactly want to say this, but…well, it would be kind of awkward for us to all hang out if you started dating someone who works for Grace. It's kind of like a conflict of interest, you know?"

Harry didn't exactly look like he knew, but the words had an effect on him. "I wouldn't want to—I wouldn't want to screw up our friendship," he said. "I never thought—I didn't mean—"

Emmett put up a hand. "It's a moot point now. A non-issue." He snatched up his keys. "Hey, I'll even be designated driver. You can get as smashed as you want."

Harry moved to follow him out the door, then hesitated. "I think I should reply to her text," he mumbled.

Emmett pursed his lips. Yes, he supposed, that was a necessary gesture.

"What should I say?" Harry asked.

" _That_  has to come from you. I don't want you to feel like this is anything other than your own words."

"OK." Harry looked utterly lost.

Emmett turned on his heel and sauntered back towards him. "OK, I'm not going to put words in your mouth, but look. You just want to say that you're sorry if you've given the wrong impression, but you're not interested in moving things any further. And that you wish her the best, and she's a great person."

"Um." Harry paused. "Can you…repeat that? Just a little slower? I don’t type very fast."

And what else was there to do but exactly that?


	8. Chapter VIII

" _Better be without sense, than misapply it as you do."_

_i._

Grace went to Mass on Sundays. “Insufferably Catholic,” Emmett had always said, with derisive interest. The Woodhouses were not religious, except in the usual vague Protestant way of rich white people.

The Caballeros, to the contrary, had always been aggressively spiritual, but since her parents’ relocation to Arizona Grace had done what she had always wished and gone to the Mission church twenty miles from Highbury—near the coast—where the Mass was said in Spanish.

When she drove back into town, she stopped to visit Arthur Bates.

Arthur Bates lived alone with his father in an apartment with two rooms, because Arthur wouldn’t take charity.

The Bateses were a Highbury fixture. When Grace was seven—nine—twelve—her mother and she would visit them on Thursday afternoons. They would play card games. Her mother would bring pastries and Arthur made coffee. Grace remembered the kindness of both men very fondly—that was before Mr. Bates’s dementia had worsened—and she had much more patience with Arthur’s ramblings than other people ( _Emmett_ ) did.

To be sure, Arthur was always and mostly preoccupied with the latest updates from his nephew Jake. Jake was an accomplished (and poor) musician, and was very rarely in California, a fact which intrigued some people and bored most, through no fault of Jake's own.

“But he will be visiting soon,” Arthur assured Grace. She drank coffee from a chipped mug and nodded, while Mr. Bates handed her playing cards one after the other.

“We’ll all enjoy seeing him,” Grace said. It had been five years or so since she had last seen Jake, but they’d been kids together. She had always considered him a friend.

Emmett hated him, inexplicably and ruthlessly.

“Jake won’t be the only visitor, you know.” Arthur poured her more coffee. It was more bitter than it used to be, but Grace choked it down. “Ashley Weston—well, Ashley Taylor now, I suppose. Her half-sister might finally be coming west to see her, now that she’s married.”

“Francesca Church?” Francesca Church was something of a local legend, less talked-over than Jake, and therefore better liked. Likewise, however, she was always going to visit, and never actually did.

“It was such a pity, when the Westons split up,” Arthur said. This was the way Arthur gossiped—all repetition and no malice. “And Angela took her maiden name back, and took her daughter with her. She was Gary’s second wife, you know. Poor Ashley was never more than a step-daughter to her. But still a pity. For a while it seemed they would make it work.”

Grace knew the story. “Francesca and Ashley have kept in touch, though, I think.”

“Yes. Ashley is such a dear, generous girl. She flies out almost every year, and Francesca must be finished with college by now. She didn’t to the wedding, but Ashley told me it wasn’t her fault. Still, Ashley has done so much to keep up a connection. I think it would be nice of Francesca to return the favor. She was a very nice little girl.”

“I don’t really remember her,” Grace admitted.

“A dear little thing. It’s such a pity.” Arthur sighed.

“That’s sometimes how family works,” Grace observed. “People leave.” Mr. Bates handed her an ace of spades.

“No, I think you’re right.” Arthur shook his head, a little sadly. “People go, and then they stay away…” He stopped short. “Oh, Grace, I didn’t mean—”

“I’m all grown up,” she assured him, with a smile. “I wasn’t abandoned, I promise you. If the farm wasn’t doing so well, I might be able to visit them more, but that’s a burden I’m lucky to bear.”

“You’re so good-humored. So patient. _We_ are lucky to have you in Highbury, Grace—oh, Father, no. Don’t dip your cards in the coffee.”

Father sputtered petulantly and shuffled the cards together.

"You know who I ran into at the bank the other day?" Arthur asked, cleaning his glasses on the edge of his cuff.

"Who?" Grace was not one for guessing.

"Harry Smith."

Well, she could have guessed _that_. "Harry's a sweet boy," she said. Harry was her age, but didn't seem so—she couldn't think of him as anything other than a boy.

"He listened to my ramblings very nicely," Arthur reflected. "I think of all our friends are getting to see a little more of him, now that Emmett has befriended him."

"Yes, we are." Grace knew better than anyone what Emmett's return had and hadn't changed. She rose and put a hand gently on Mr. Bates' shoulder. “I shouldn’t stay much longer,” she said. “Thank you, as always, Arthur. I’ll bring you some strawberries next Sunday.”

“You’re too generous.” He replaced his glasses and pushed them up the bridge of his nose. “How can I return the favor?”

“It’s nothing.” And it was, truly. “You know how I enjoy my visits.”

“But they’ve gotten a little less frequent,” Arthur said, as she started down the warped stairs. He was smiling warmly at her. “Now that Emmett is back in town.”

Grace felt her cheeks heat up, and there was no reason for it. “Emmett keeps his own social circle, you know. Just like you were saying, with Harry.”

“Social circles aren’t the same as _you_ , Grace. Ah, well. I’ve said too much.” Arthur waved one of his knobby hands. “Forget the nonsense of a silly old man.”

Grace said goodbye, and stepped out into the June breeze. It was a warm day out. No doubt Emmett wouldn’t even be home. But no, she was forgetting—he liked his Sunday mornings with his mother. Or at least he _had_.

It wasn’t what Arthur was hinting it. It wasn’t anything like that at all. But things were beginning to settle down again, in Grace’s heart and mind, and she always believed in acting on a generous instinct. She had changed her mind about Harry Smith.

It was only fair to tell Emmett so.

_ii._

All in all, it had come off as well as he could have hoped.  Harry had been desolate, but no mood was particularly lasting with Harry. It had taken only a cursory amount of Emmett's considerable charm to take his mind of Rosa Martinez and bolster it up with promises of the glorious weeks of summer still ahead, and more importantly, Marnie's ever-more-certain interest. In a twenty-four hour span, Harry was almost cheerful again.

Emmett counted that a success.

He spent Sunday without Harry or Marnie, however. Normally he and Mom had breakfast together—or they used to, anyway. But since he'd come back, he'd mostly just had Sunday mornings to himself. Maybe people assumed he was busy. If people assumed that, he had to let them.

The sight of Grace walking up the driveway to Hartfield House, though—that was welcome. She was in one of her church dresses—floral print, short sleeves, her hair pinned up. She looked beautiful in the sunlight. He was an artist; he got to think things like that.

"Here to return a book to my mom?" he asked, when she came up the porch steps. He wished there was something to lean against.

"I came to see you."

He felt something rise up in his chest. He said, "I'm so honored."

"Be serious," Grace said, but she was smiling. "I came here to tell you something pleasant, and you don't want me to change my mind about that, do you?"

He didn't. "Fire away."

She sat down next to him on the front step. "It's about Harry."

He didn't know how close Marnie and Grace were—he didn't think they were _especially_ close—but he couldn't help hoping that somehow, magically, Marnie had made a move with Harry, Grace knew about it, and he, Emmett could do more than count it a success: he could glorify it as one.

Grace laced her fingers together, and gave him no such satisfaction. "I think he's really coming into his own," she said. "And I think you're helping him."

Emmett bit his lip to hide his smile. "I would hope so. He's a good kid."

Grace seemed ready to call him on the fact that Harry was, in fact, older than he was. But she didn't. "Yes, well. I think he's more confident than he was a month ago. That's good."

"Confidence requires practice...for most people." Emmett leaned his elbows against the step above him, and shot her a teasing glance. Whether those glances (of which there were many) affected Grace was another matter. He could never tell. It was frustrating. Sometimes she looked like she was blushing, but her eyes were always steady.

Grace said, "I think that confidence is paying off." She was smiling again. He told himself he'd have to take another shot at painting that smile, and then reminded himself that she wouldn't approve of it if he did.

"What do you mean?" Maybe _this_ \--

"Do you know Rosa Martinez?"

Not where he'd thought this was going. "Isn't she one of that family that works for you?"

"The Martinezes are long-time employees, yes. Rosa is a good friend of mine. And Harry and she are dating."

"Oh, Grace," Emmett said lightly. "You shouldn’t try to keep up with gossip. That's old news."

She wasn't visibly flustered by this. She smoothed her skirt over her knees, and said, "Oh, OK. I guess I'm not surprised that you already know." She squinted a little—the sun was high in the sky, with little cloud-cover—and added, "I think they'll be great together."

Emmett decided to break the news. Grace was brilliant, of course, but on matters like these—well, she never dated. Of course she was a little dense. "Yeah," he said, "I...don't think that's on the table."

She was startled. "What's going on? Did Harry say something to you? Is he changing his mind?"

Emmett summoned up an elaborate grimace. " _Changed_ his mind, I'm afraid. It's all over. First time wasn't anything of a charm."

She was silent for a long time. She dropped her eyes and stared at the ground, and Emmett felt like looking away, but he couldn't, exactly. Then Grace said, in a much colder tone,

"What the hell did you do?"

 _Shit._ "What?"

Grace stood up, and folded her arms over her chest. It was like she'd sucked all the afternoon heat out of the air. "I said what the hell did you do, Emmett?"

He stood up too. He wasn't going to have to look up at her, not at a time like this. He was a lot taller than she was. Advantages were advantages. "Harry made his choice," he returned. Dammit, where was his eloquence and charm.

"Let me guess," Grace said. "Harry asked you for advice, and you shot him down."

"Come _on_ , Grace. She's a—a temporary migrant worker. Is that really—just _practically speaking_ —a good match?'

It was the wrong thing to say.

“Don’t,” Grace said. He’d never seen her like this. She was pale. “Don’t you _dare_ try to pull that bigoted shit with me.”

"I don't think it's bigoted to recognize that Harry's kind of a simple guy, and maybe yeah, maybe he needs a little goddamn guidance so he doesn't end up in a green card marriage with the first chick who was nice to him!"

Grace scoffed. "Are youkidding me? A green card marriage? You know that the Martinezes are here legally, right? And if they were _not_ , what difference does that make? Do you think Rosa doesn’t deserve to be happy, to be in love, because she’s an immigrant? Because she’s a worker? Because she has to care for her extended family?”

Emmett stood his ground, even though it felt like the ground was shifting under his feet. "I didn't say that."

"You didn't have to." She was shaking all over, but somehow, her voice was deadly calm.

"Harry has bigger dreams than Highbury. Is it so terrible that I want him to find someone who understands those dreams?"

A strange expression passed through Grace's eyes. It was almost like relief. "You can't be talking about Marnie."

"So what if I am?"

Grace shook her head. "Do you...do you really not know? Never mind." She seemed to recollect herself. "You do realize that Harry isn't going to go anywhere in Hollywood, right? I've heard that pipedream before. He's a nice enough guy, cute, whatever. But you're going to stand here and look me in the eye and tell me that you think Rosa Martinez isn't worth his time?" She blew out a breath. "Rosa Martinez is _vastly_ superior to Harry. She has a steady job. She's smart. She's a hard worker. She juggles a lot of responsibilities."

"Funny," said Emmett, who didn't think it was funny at all. He was dead certain that he was right, of course, but that didn't mean this didn't suck. He felt sick. Grace, however, couldn't be allowed to see that. "Funny, that just a second ago, you were singing his praises."

"I was coming to tell you that I had been wrong for judging his intelligence. Now?" She threw up her hands. "I'm not so sure."

"It sounds like you take issue with _my_ intelligence, more than anything." He'd folded his arms over his chest, too, mirroring her. He hadn't meant to, but there you were.

Grace laughed. It wasn't her usual laugh. He hated it. "Oh, Emmett. It's not your goddamn intelligence I'm criticizing. Hell, you'd be better off stupid. If you were an idiot, you wouldn't screw shit up as badly as you do."

He reeled, and the ground he'd been standing on _was_ gone now, it was all gone, and yet he had to stay here. He forced himself to smile. It was, maybe, the hardest thing he'd ever done. "All this, because I gave my friend some advice?"

Grace's shoulders slumped. "No," she said. Her tone was softer, but it hurt just as much. "All this, because you shut your eyes to what was around you. All this, because you're privileged enough to do that in the first place."

He'd done the right thing. The right thing, and _she_ had no right to say this to him, to cut him off at the knees, to--

"I can't do this," Grace said, and turned. She was walking away, she was _leaving_ , and he had to do something, dammit, couldn't just _stand_ there without knowing what she'd meant. What couldn't she do? No, no, God, not like _this--_

But he was frozen. No words, no charm, no easy smile. He'd done the right thing.

Watching her leave, it didn't matter.


	9. Chapter IX

_"...sorry, but could not repent."_

_I_ _._

Three missed calls from Julia. Grace tapped out a reply: _Sorry. Swamped._

A new alert blinked a second later. _Anything I should know about it?_

Grace leaned back against her pillow. Her hair was a mess; it kept getting caught in her mouth. She pushed it away, frustrated. _I didn't say that...you didn't have to...I can't do this_.

She wrote back, _Just stuff with the farm. You'd hate it._

She'd cried. It was only fair; Rosa was probably crying somewhere. People cried when their hearts were broken. This wasn't about Grace's heart, though. It couldn't be. 

_But you let yourself miss him, when he was away._

_Well, yeah. He's like a brother to you._

Except that that didn't fit at all, and she couldn't deal with making it fit.

The rest of the day had been a wash, which was, in itself, unacceptable. Sunday afternoons were _needed_ for housecleaning and looking after Paco, planning out the week ahead. And Grace had spent it lying on her bed, tears leaking out of her eyes.

Monday, she treated better, even if it didn’t return the favor. She had gone four years without—

Yeah. Four years. She didn't need anything else now.

Of course, it was hard enough, seeing Rosa, red-eyed and quieter than usual. Grace tamped down her anger into something that more readily looked like sympathy, and did her best to be kind. But the magic spell was broken. Grace had played older sister, the role she'd always tried for, and had failed. Rosa wasn't going to trust her so easily again.

It was his fault. She'd spent a lifetime shouldering responsibility, but that didn't mean she couldn't lay blame when it was a matter of truth.

Grace watched two weeks go by. They were very much, to an outside eye, like any two weeks out of her ordinary summer. Mornings in the fields, afternoons in the office. Evenings, with sometimes only one glance at the sky to see how the moon was hanging.

Not seeing Emmett was easier than she'd expected; he never came around, and except for church and business meetings, she barely left the farm. Whether that was what she wanted—but Grace left that off the table. It was never about what she wanted.

Emmett was fire, and Grace knew, you could swipe your fingertips through a flame quickly without getting burned, but you couldn't hold them there.

When her parents moved, her father said he'd call every week, see how things were going. That promise had not been forthcoming.

"You seem to be doing just fine," he marveled, when Grace called _him_ , sometime in that endless two weeks.

She clenched the phone a little tighter. "Yeah," she said. "You taught me well."

"It's good to know I've left it in good hands."

 _But you left_. "I'll make you proud."

"How is the name-change treating you?"

She should have known he'd still be hung up over that. "I think people are really responding to it, Dad. Remember the article?"

"Hmph. Yes." He paused. "Your mom's calling me—we have dinner plans. We both miss you, little one."

 _Little one_. Grace's mouth twisted a little. "Love you too."

She took Paco for a long drive that night. It was the end of June. The closer to the water, the more the weather was bearable—but the days in the fields were long and hot and heavy.

Grace wasn't used to going to the beach alone. Grace wasn't used to going to the beach. She had memories of sunbathing with Julia—well, Julia sunbathed. Grace liked roaming the shore, picking shells with Emmett, racing into the water with Emmett—

Dammit. She'd come here to get away from him.

But he was all around, even she was angry with him.

Paco was well-trained enough not to need a leash. He loped along beside her as she wandered by the edge of the water, keeping a wide distance from the breakers. The foam could nip at her feet.

"He's an idiot," she said, to Paco, or to the water—or maybe to nobody at all.

Paco whined.

She knelt. The sand was everything at once—soft, yielding, but gritty against her knees. She never did this; she never just let herself be tired.

There was this one time, when he was fifteen and she was seventeen, that he told her his greatest fear.

Hand sweeping, one of his spastic-yet-graceful motions—" _I don't want to be like them._ "

" _Them?_ " She thought he might mean, _everyone else_. In a way, he kind of did.

" _Mom. Ike. Everybody who's just…stuck._ "

And Grace had said, " _Emmett, you're never going to be like them._ " Because even at his worst, he was so much brighter, spangle-bright. Bright like pain.

He had relaxed a little, but the lines on his forehead hadn't. " _But if I was…who would even know?_ "

" _I would,_ " Grace had said, and then she'd done something tremendously stupid: she'd reached out and taken his hand. " _I'd tell you_."

He'd looked at her, then, as if he actually believed her. As if he was going to do something to change. As if—but the next day, he was back to blowing off his classes, sweet-talking his way into better grades, and generally not giving a damn about anything.

Grace always fell for it.

 _Not this time_.

She stood up. She was older now—they both were—and they were set in their ways. Emmett at fifteen had been wasting his time; Emmett at twenty-two was wasting other people's lives.

Grace tilted her head. Paco was getting his paws wet, then darting back to her side. The sun was setting. Maybe she was being a little bit dramatic—but she very rarely was, so if this _was_ a momentary lapse, she figured she was entitled to it.

 _Two weeks_. Two weeks, since they'd spoken a word.

He'd been on her mind. But that didn't mean he had any right to her life, her approval—

—or her heart. 

_ii._

Two weeks was surprisingly torturous. He’d really thought that Grace would get over it.

But she didn’t, and Emmett couldn’t afford to let himself miss her. Thus, the torture.

“Where are you _going_?” Mom asked tremulously, when he came downstairs with his luggage, on the afternoon of the fifteenth day.

“I have a board meeting,” Emmett said. Which was always _apropos_ of nothing to Mom. “For the Foundation?”

“But I thought…”

“Ike and I have been talking about it for a while,” Emmett said, meaning that Ike had meekly asked if Emmett might not like to take the reins of the family’s charitable activity. And Emmett _had_ wanted to. He’d always dreamed of taking charge, following in Dad’s—

Never mind. He smiled, rolled the leather handle of his bag under his fingers. “It’s twice a year. I’m taking Harry with me—he might as well visit L.A. sometime, and he has a couple vacation days saved up. Amazingly.”

“But it’s so _sudden_.”

It was a little sudden. Emmett should have given her more warning. She didn’t want him to go, but Grace didn’t want him at all…He was going. Responsibilities, distractions, call it what you would.

“I’ll be back tomorrow night. Promise. And I’ll call?” He wasn’t sure if it was supposed to be like this, if he was being too involved, or not a good enough son, or both at once. “I just—it’s important to me.”

She sighed deeply, but her voice was a little steadier. “Tomorrow night?”

“Yeah.”

He’d been gone for four years—how had she managed, then? He’d called her often, helped her figure out email—but she had _managed_. And she’d never visited him. She said she couldn’t bear the thought of getting on a plane.

He tried to explain it a bit to Harry on the flight to L.A.; not out of real emotion, just out of a desire to fill the space.

Harry just looked at him rather owlishly. “I don’t know my mom.”

“What?” Emmett was taken aback.

“She sort of…bailed. My dad checks in every once in a while.”

“How’d you—” Emmett started ask a question, figured it was impolite, and stopped. Had he really failed, in the past month and a half, to learn _anything_ real about Harry? Grace’s face appeared in his mind, with a knowing expression. He sighed, but he didn’t exactly send the image away.

Harry didn’t seem offended. “I just lived with my grandparents. It was fine.”

Emmett had walked into it, and for a second, he was half-worried that Harry would ask about Dad—and Emmett would have to say _something_ , because _he_ had asked, and he could feel his chest tightening sharply—

But Harry asked no such thing. He turned the conversation back to the work the Woodhouse family did with their foundation, and Emmett was struck, suddenly, by the fact that Harry might occasionally have _tact_.

Grace had thought well of him. Had. _Had._

_If you were an idiot, you wouldn’t screw shit up as badly as you do._

His mouth was dry.

It was easier at the board meeting. Ike had never had much skill for handling the sharks, and Emmett hadn’t much experience, but he had natural talent. There was no point in denying _facts._

He left Harry to wander around the city for the day—Harry had a vague idea of auditioning for something, as though that was either feasible or likely—and Emmett spent two hours being utterly businesslike, and resolving his prepared inquiries to his satisfaction. He wondered for a moment if Ike would be proud, and then wondered if Ike was knowledgeable about their charitable work to understand at all.

It wasn’t just the business, he mused, checking his watch for Harry’s arrival time. Charity made sense to him. He supposed it made him a good person, but it didn’t exactly feel that way. He didn’t do it for _that_ , though Grace probably wouldn’t believe him and she was the only one whose opinion mattered.

Dammit, there was Grace’s face again, like a restless ghost.

He checked his watch again; paced, felt a little too unknown under the glow of the lights all around. Where the hell was Harry? Lost, no doubt. They needed to check in at their hotel, at some point. He sighed and dialed his phone.

“I’m—we’re—I’m at a restaurant,” Harry was saying eagerly, when he picked up.

“What?”

Harry gave him the address.

Well, he could go for some food. Not-for-profits made for hungry work. “I’ll meet you there in fifteen,” Emmett said. He was too superior, always, to ask—but what Harry had meant by slipping “I” and “we” together?

Although, he might have guessed. When he found the place, there, sipping martinis at the bar, was Marnie.

“I happened to be in town,” she said, with a scarlet smile. “And then I ran into Harry…”

It was a big city, a long way from Highbury, but Emmett loved being right. He didn’t call her bluff for its contrivance. “Wonderful,” he said, with a return grin. _Take_ that _, Grace. She followed him all the way down the state._

Without Grace there to concede defeat, however, it was somehow less satisfying.

Marnie was full of stories about her day of L.A. The stories were substantially similar, and all without notable flourish, but Harry hung on every word, and _that_ was enough to entertain Emmett. Finally, he yawned. “I think I’d better go check in at the hotel,” he said, “But I’d never drag anyone with me when the night’s still young. You two have another round. I’ll text you the details, Harry.”

He was halfway across the floor, reveling in the perfection of this plan—there was dim lighting, an _ambiance_ —it was the _perfect_ place for Harry to forget his heart had ever been broken or even cracked over Rosa Martineza, and—

“Emmett.”

Marnie had him by the elbow. He didn’t like to be touched. People were always forgetting that. “What?”

“You shouldn’t leave.”

God, why were she _and_ Harry both so dense? They both liked each other; they didn’t need the third wheel anymore. Frankly, at this point they should just be grateful that someone of his social abilities had deigned to be the third wheel at all. He forced a smile. For Emmett, smiles were an easy thing. “Marnie, it’s going to be fine.”

“I just really think…I just—we both—” She was chewing at her lip.

She was still touching him. _Save it for Harry._ “I’m really exhausted, but Harry’s new here, and—well, you’re quite familiar with the scene, you know? I’d so appreciate it if you’d look after him.” Was _that_ what she needed to hear.

“You’re such a good friend to him,” she said, blushing rosily. Blushing, no doubt, at the prospect of having the perfect excuse to spend the evening with her one-and-only. Emmett hid a more genuine smile this time.

“I try,” he said. “Impromptu dinners and all.”

And with that he got away, back across town to the hotel, and at last into a bed that was extraordinarily comfortable but didn’t feel like his own. He had missed California all the time he was in New England, if only for its familiarity. But now he didn’t know if it was the West that he’d missed, or something else.

Perhaps it was only Highbury.

Perhaps it was only—

He slept.


	10. Chapter X

_"…_ _hoped they might now become friends again."_

_i._

The worst thing about empathy was that it was unreachable without experience.

More to the point: Grace wasn’t familiar with the concept of breakups. Wistfulness, sure. A strange twist in her chest, definitely.

There had been that tall history major in college, with the blue eyes and the gleaming smile—but that was a crush. She’d been too focused on her business degree, she’d held off for…well, for _something_ , and he dated her marketing TA for two months and turned out to be kind of a jerk.

Grace didn’t have a litany of after-party tears, of late-night roommate confidences, of boyfriends in sweaters who came to visit on the weekends and then broke the hearts they had won. She was too busy, and now she was too responsible, and again, she was _holding off_.

She reminded herself, practically, that it wasn’t any use wishing hypothetical pain and experience on herself just to help Rosa out of a rough patch of Emmett’s making. But it didn’t help, seeing Rosa’s hunched shoulders and downcast eyes, day in and day out. It had been almost three weeks, and Rosa wasn’t perking up.

Grace took it into her own hands. Even that felt a little less than selfless—maybe that was why she was trying to borrow pain from a past that didn’t exist—because Julia and Ike’s Fourth-of-July visit was looming over her.

Julia and Ike meant Emmett.

He hadn’t called. But that meant nothing; he hadn’t called through four years of college, and apparently he believed that still meant he got to miss her.

Rosa was leaving for the day when Grace found her, so that she could say her piece. She had chosen not to say anything in the fields. The sun had been too bright, and there were other workers around.

“Rosa.”

Rosa stiffened. She didn’t turn, and then she did, but her eyes were fixed on the ground.

This sucked. And Grace could lay blame, or she could just do what was right.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

Rosa blinked quickly. “What?”

“I said I’m sorry.” Maybe she _should_ have said this when they were out in the field, where the world was open wide around them. Here, between the house and the stand and the road, Rosa just looked like she wanted to run.

And Grace wasn’t familiar with the concept of breakups, so she wouldn’t be able to run with her.

“Nothing—it wasn’t your fault.” Rosa was almost stuttering.

“I shouldn’t have pushed you,” Grace said. “I was excited for you. You’re my friend. But I didn’t take—I didn’t read the situation right, and I made promises that weren’t mine to keep.”

Rosa _was_ looking at her now, and she shook her head firmly. “That’s not it at all.”

“You have a lot on your plate. I got caught up in being excited, and I let myself—” She almost said _live vicariously through you_ , but she didn’t know if that was exactly what she meant, so she stopped.

Rosa scraped at her elbow with her blunt fingernails. “No,” she said again. “You were—I don’t know what happened, but you were nothing but helpful. And our date was…it was great. I’m just—I’m just having a hard time. _Abuela_ is sick…the kids are driving me crazy, and Harry…” Rosa shrugged. She looked exhausted.

“What can I do?”

The guarded look went up again. “It’s OK. I’m handling—”

“I’ll bring dinner over tomorrow,” Grace said firmly. It was the least she could do. She remembered her mom doing that, keeping track of the workers’ family lives, and adding in a little help here and there and everywhere. With both her parents gone, it was like having _two_ full-time jobs.

She told herself to stop being melodramatic. Rosa had real problems. Problems that weren’t all about filling the spaces around golden boys with paperwork and other sundry distractions.

At present, Rosa nodded, like that was alright. She said, “Emmett didn’t like it, did he? Me and Harry.”

It was the first time she hadn’t called him _Mr. Emmett_. Which, honorifics be damned. “Yeah,” Grace said. “He’s an absolute prick, if you were wondering.”

For some reason, that made Rosa smile, really smile, for the first time since the fateful text message. “OK.”

Grace watched her drive away, in that station wagon that had to be at least two decades old, and ran a hand through her hair. Rosa’s last look had been a little too knowing.

All of a sudden Grace was back at Julia’s wedding, and she was dancing with the golden boy in question—always in question—and it was like something was fighting its way out of her chest. Hope. Not for _them_ , but for _him._ Hope that he was going to be something more. It always hurt her most, when she thought he could be something more.

 _Stop moping_. She had a dinner to make, and quickly. She had a bunch of emails to answer, and tomorrow would be too busy to fit in any cooking.

What did she have time for? Lasagna? Enchiladas? Grandma Martinez was an excellent cook; Grace didn’t want to be subjected to her criticism.

She went with the enchiladas, because her sauce was, as Emmett had once said, _the shit_.

Grace looked down at Paco, who was eagerly waiting for a sample. “I am never feeding him my damn enchiladas again,” she said.

_ii._

Marnie should have been too boring to be a conundrum. And in a way, she _was_.

Emmett hated wasting brain space on her vagaries, but then again, he had a plan in place, and he needed to know his targets. Admittedly, he did not know what to make of her. It was just plain _odd_ that someone who was so eager to be involved in everything could be so unwilling to take initiative with her own romantic interests.

If it hadn't been for his continuing certainty (all the more solidified by Grace's opposition, if only for the principle of the thing) that she was a great match for Harry, he would have avoided her.

There was the _boring_ part—Marnie was dull.

Granted, Emmett had particular standards about that—most people would find Harry dull—but with Marnie it was more of a  _varnish_  than anything else. Everything she did and said seemed part of some larger scheme, but unless it was a scheme about Harry, Emmett couldn't care about it.

She lacked  _sincerity_. That was it.

For someone very inclined to be evasive and capricious himself, he liked sincerity in other people.

After the "coincidental" meeting in L.A., she renewed her Hollywood hopes: albeit, hopes that operated in a slightly different vein.

"I think I've found my calling as a gossip columnist," she announced one day, flat on the grass, with her elbows crooked, phone in hand. She had been opining about the  _New York Times_  not two days earlier, but Emmett let that go with only an inward jibe.

"Wow," Harry said. They were on the front lawn of Hartfield, and Harry was trying to whistle on a piece of grass. Emmett had mastered the skill at the age of eight and had not pursued it since. He sipped Perrier and wondered if Grace was out in the fields this morning. The sun was hot.

 "Like," Marnie said, with a sideways glance, "Listen to this blind item.  _He's the one playing hard to get, but that doesn't mean he isn't playing. Always has a trusted friend by his side…you can_ bank _on that. With his wits, he's got a bright future ahead of him, so does she—it's the match they both want, but who's going to give in first_?"

She wasn't looking at her phone. Emmett narrowed his eyes. "Show me that."

She squealed and jerked it out of his reach. "No!"

Just as he'd suspected. Harry was staring at him, blank, and Emmett decided he'd better push this later. He raised an eyebrow at Marnie, for the time being. "So  _that's_ what you want to do?"

She sucked in her lower lip. "Exactly that."

Still all blank on Harry's front. Emmett sighed. "You two want something to drink?"

"Oh, no." Marnie rose from where she'd been practically sprawled on the grass, and dusted off her knees. "I have an interview, so I’ve got to get back to my apartment and change.”

They’d never been to her apartment, despite repeated requests. Emmett wasn’t much one for visiting; he preferred to entertain. "For  _Hollywood Life_?"

"Nah, just this administrative assistant job, at the Augusta Realty thing." She rolled her eyes. "Good enough for the time being, I guess."

"A—are you coming to the Fourth of July party?" Harry asked, lumbering up to follow her to her car.

Emmett stayed where he was.

"At Noel and Ashley's?" Marnie smiled. It was a secretive smile, but it was meant to be, so it lacked something in charm. "Sure thing. You'll be there, right?"

Harry nodded. Emmett could see that he was blushing furiously.

"Great."

Emmett drained his drink and tilted his head back as Marnie spun off down the driveway. "Nice going."

"What?"

God, Harry was a little thick sometimes. Emmett smiled affectionately. "You didn't really buy that 'blind item' did you?"

"That was a little weird." Harry slumped down in the chair beside him.

"A little weird?" Emmett tossed a glare in his direction, with the requisite hair flip that such expressions required. "She made it up, dude. It was about _you_."

Harry's eyes widened. "Are you  _sure_?"

"Playing hard to get? You two have been circling each other for weeks. A bright future ahead of you? You both share dreams of stardom. And the best part? 'Always has a trusted friend…you can  _bank_ on that?  _Bank_?"

"I work at a bank." Harry's face cleared a little.

Emmett tapped the edge of his bottle approvingly. "Exactly."

"But if the friend works at the bank, isn't it about you?" Harry clenched his hands over his knees, suddenly panicked. "Wait, does Marnie like  _you_ now?"

It was exceedingly juvenile, how this whole thing leaned sometimes. Emmett adopted a reassuring tone. "No way, man. She does not. The bank thing was obviously about you."

"Oh, OK. Wow. That was…clever."

If you liked that sort of thing. But Emmett was satisfied; if Marnie was in love enough to think Harry had prodigious wits, they were onto something.

Maybe the beach party that Noel and Ashley were planning would seal the deal.

In terms of sealing the deal, he had another worry on his mind, though he would not submit it the realm of Harry's (or anyone else's) consideration.

It was high past time that he and Grace made amends. They hadn't spoken since the middle of June. The holiday was next week—all partying aside, Ike and Julia were finally coming to visit. That meant that they  _would_ be thrown together. Emmett wasn't afraid of very many things, but the somehow, the idea of having Grace stonewall him in front of  _everyone_  was particularly unbearable. Damn it all, when had Grace been one to hold a grudge? She'd been pissed at him when he blew off getting valedictorian—he hadn't wanted to give the speech, so he'd purposely failed a test. It had been a precise exercise; he'd dropped to third in the class. It had been done by  _choice_ , he'd always argued, so what did it matter?

But Grace had been angry.

Well, maybe  _angry_  wasn't the word. He hadn't seen Grace really  _angry_  until two and a half weeks ago, when she'd almost sneered.

He was biting his lips. His mind had drifted away from the Harry-Marnie situation, from the sparkle of sunlight—well, from everything, really.

For someone who did only what he wanted to, it wasn't fair that the very thought of Grace's feelings was enough to control him. She shouldn't have that much power.

But he didn't know how to take it away from her.


	11. Chapter XI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you need to, please review the trigger warning in the end notes. It is non-specific but is sort of a "spoiler."

_“Quite forgotten in the expectation of a pleasant party.”_

_i._

“See?” Julia communicated much with a raised eyebrow. “Already likes Tía Grace more than his own mother.”

“That’s not true,” Grace murmured, but she couldn’t keep from widening her eyes in response to Eddie’s blank stare. He gurgled, and Grace smiled. “Can I get a smile back? There it is!”

Julia huffed out a sigh, and Grace tucked her smile away. “Come on, now.”

“I’m just stressed. And _fat_.” Julia flattened herself dramatically on Grace’s sofa. “And she’s going to be _whining_ …and Emmett is going to be smarmy and sometimes I just can’t deal with the smarm, you know?”

“He isn’t smarmy. He’s—just a show-off.”

“There’s a difference, huh?”

Grace didn’t dignify that with a response, just bounced Eddie against her chest and said, “The earlier we get there, the earlier you can leave.”

“You know _that’s_ not true.” But another thought seemed to propel Julia upright. “You’re coming, right? You haven’t had some lover’s quarrel with—”

“I’m coming.” Grace turned away, so that Julia wouldn’t start reading her face. Julia was not to know that Emmett had texted her an evening ago, saying something about Ike and Julia and family dinner, and Mom missing her. _Mom_.

She’d thought of writing back, _this is the first time you’ve ever texted me_ , but thought better of it. She’d only responded that, of course she would. Someone had to be the adult, and that was never going to be Emmett.

So here she was, having half-vowed never to speak to him again, ironing a blouse. She had missed Julia, of course—but sometimes it was hard to only have the pieces of an old life returned. Julia and Ike were not the same as Julia coming home in her college days, when the family was all together and—

 _You’re being sentimental_ , Grace reproached herself. She put the iron away, and buttoned up her blouse, warm and crisp against her skin. Downstairs, Ike was jingling the keys in his hand.

“We’re driving?”

“Yeah.” He stared at her. “You walk?”

“It’s so close,” she started to say, but she finished with, “It’s fine.” Of course. They had a baby. A baby who was currently fussing because he wanted his mother to pick him up, though Julia was putting the finishing touches on her lipstick and being distracted.

But in a moment she was a mother again, and Grace reflected that there was a good deal more affection underlying Julia’s freneticism than she let on. 

Walking to Hartfield house was nothing. Driving there— _this_ drive, at least—was unbearably long. Grace twisted a thread escaping from the knee of one of her trouser legs and repressed a sigh.

“Are you feeling well?” Ike asked, glancing at her in the rearview mirror. He was nothing like Emmett, but they were still related. There were occasional resemblances. “You look kind of washed-out.”

“I’m fine. Slight headache.” She raised a hand quickly, to stave off any recommendations. “I took some ibuprofen though, I promise.”

Julia narrowed her eyes, but said nothing. Ike was satisfied, but rambled on about headaches for a moment longer. And then they were _there_ , and Emmett was lounging on the porch, and somehow it would have been easier not to see him at all until they were inside.

Grace got out of the car and lifted Eddie out of his car-seat. Julia took him, and Grace had nothing to do with her hands.

Greetings were exchanged. Ike and Emmett did that half-hug, half-Heimlich that passed for affection between brothers. Julia handed him the baby, and said, “He whines a lot. You two will get along.”

The whole time, Emmett was looking at Grace, and Grace said nothing.

Then Julia piped up again. “Oh my god. You two _match_.”

Grace had never come closer to disowning Julia than at that moment. It was terribly true. For some reason, Grace had gone with dark-wash jeans and a white blouse, and Emmett was wearing _basically the same thing_ , guy-version. His shirt was a lot tighter than hers, but that was to be expected.

Emmett’s eyebrows went up. He looked satisfied. “Totally,” he said.

Grace composed herself. “Should we go in and see your Mom?”

Dinner was an ordeal. It always was, and she didn’t know what to say to Emmett, so they couldn’t talk amongst themselves and tune Julia and Ike out like they normally did.

Ike and his mother got along well, but their entire conversation was always devoted to one-upping each other with ailments and miniscule worries. This pattern in turn brought out the worst in Julia, and if she wasn’t stopped, she was inclined to indulge in a running commentary that was…less than flattering.

But in the spaces left by her own silence, by not seeking out Emmett’s attention, Grace found herself appreciating his own efforts on his mother’s behalf. When Julia prodded, he deflected, without as much return fire as he was sometimes wont to give.

Yes, Emmett loved his mother. Selfish, maybe—but all the Woodhouses were, in their own way. And Emmett’s selfishness was probably more thoughtlessness than anything else.

All of a sudden—between two bites of steak—Grace knew that she missed him.

Dammit, she really missed him.

So when his eyes caught hers in a fraction of a second, with a question there she couldn’t quite make out, she smiled at him. And later, when Ike and Julia were engaged in a surprisingly civil discussion with Mrs. Woodhouse about Noel and Ashley’s wedding, Grace and Emmett were left alone with the baby.

Emmett was very taken with his nephew. He bounced him up and down and made elaborate faces, and Grace’s smile was harder and harder to keep at bay. Whatever Emmett was, he could be endlessly charming.

“Isn’t he a darling?” she said, tweaking one of Eddie’s small fingers.

“He’s perfect,” Emmett said. There was something like awe in his tone. Sideways, he dashed off a glance at Grace. “At least that’s something on which we can always agree.”

She could tell that he was trying to be casual about it. “Yes,” she said. “It’s wonderful to share a love for someone, especially a child.”

“I think we should make up,” Emmett blurted. Emmett, king of repartee, _blurting_.

Grace let out a breath. “I would like that too,” she said.

Emmett stopped jogging his arms. Eddie made a small whimper at the change of pace. Emmett said, “I still think I did right, I just…I can’t stand it, Grace. I can’t stand it.”

“I appreciate the honesty,” she said, and she meant it.

She could have sworn his whole body relaxed. At least, he looked less like a string pulled too tight. “Is…is Rosa really cut up about it?”

“She’s suffering,” Grace said simply.

“I’m sorry. Truly, about that. I’m sorry that anyone was hurt.”

Grace pressed her lips together. It wasn’t enough, not nearly enough, and yet—

“Life is so shitty when you’re mad at me,” he said, desolately. And Emmett was never just one thing at any given time, but Grace couldn’t help but think that he believed every word he said.

She took a step forward. They were a matched set tonight, and maybe that was fate. “Do you want to shake hands?”

He beamed, dimples in full effect. “Hell yeah.”

_ii._

It was Emmett’s idea to spend Fourth of July at the beach. Because it was his idea, he actually put effort into persuading Mom that it was a Feasible Plan, and as a consequence, she agreed. Rather enthusiastically, in fact.

(Then everything went to hell.)

(Not all at once; there was an order of hellishness, just as Dante had prophesied.)

Harry came down with some sort of horrible stomach flu the night before the party. Emmett waffled between being a sympathetic friend and knowing full well that puke didn’t mix with festivities of any kind. In the end, Harry made it easy for him.

“I can’t go, dude,” he croaked, when Emmett called him.

“We rented the house for the whole day…you could rest…” He was cut off by the sound of retching. “No, you’re probably right.”

“Is Marnie still going?”

“I don’t know. She’s going to be so disappointed, though.”

Except—she wasn’t. She showed up in a sundress with a bikini strap peeking out, and was only upset about Harry’s absence for maybe two minutes.

“Oh, that sucks!”

Emmett lowered his voice. They were all getting ready to go—Ashley and Noel and the Woodhouse-Caballero clan—and Julia was standing close by. “Marnie,” Emmett said. “We would completely understand if, you know…you don’t want to—”

“Not come?” Marnie practically squeaked in indignation. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world!”

 _Not even for the guy you’ve been chasing for close on two months_? People were really weird sometimes. “But Harry—”

“I feel _so_ bad for him,” Marnie said, with more drama in emphasis than in actual emotion. She pressed a sudden hand to Emmett’s arm. “You’re not sick though, right?”

“Not that I know of.” He stepped away, mostly because he didn’t like to be touched, and also because for a tiny space of a moment, he’d had an uncomfortable realization. Not a true realization, just…an idea.

“Remind me who this chick is again?” Julia demanded, coming up beside him. Marnie was chatting with Noel.

“Marnie. She’s new in town; just waiting for her chance to date my friend Harry. The one who’s sick.”

Julia’s eyebrows went skyward. “I don’t know who the hell Harry is, but he’s not the one her sights are set on today.”

“What do you mean?” And _damn_ _it_ , she’d better not be confirming that sneaking suspicion…

She was. “Bro, seriously? She’s been checking you out more than a Walmart cashier.”

Emmett rolled his eyes. “That’s a godawful attempt at humor.”

“It’s an analogy.”

“Grace doesn’t _do_ analogies, one of the many reasons I prefer her to you.”

“Ask Grace about Marnie, then,” Julia said, with a wicked grin. She shifted Eddie to her other hip, so that there was a baby-barrier between her and Emmett’s steely glare. “She’ll give it to you straight.”

As if Emmett would ask Grace.

The first few hours at the beach were fine. It was warm; they went wading (or swimming, in Marnie’s case), and even Mom agreed that the sun was “very bright.” The house was a fine one—one of Emmett’s high-school friends had used it for his graduation party, and the location had been memorable enough—and there was good food and drink. Woodhouses didn’t skimp.

Noel and Ashley had invited a few of their own friends. There was nobody for whom Emmett cared particularly, but Noel was enough on his own. So was Grace, but she was being a bit reserved (as she often was in company) and staying with Julia and her nephew.

After dinner, they hung out on the wraparound porch with the compliments of the catered bar. Emmett sipped at a margarita, and thought that he might paint the whisper of waves still visible in the dusk if he ever got around to it. Ashley and Noel sat down beside him. “You know,” Ashley said, “I had a long chat with Francesca the other night.”

Emmett had no present plans for relationships—casual, permanent, or anywhere in-between—but he wasn’t going to deny how attractive elusiveness, as a quality, could be. He’d been hearing rumors about Francesca Church for years, and how she was always going to come and visit her half-sister, and never did.

“I didn’t miss a visit, did I?”

“No…” Ashley sighed. “But now I’m married. She was super bummed that she had to miss the wedding. I really think she’d going to come this time. Probably next month. And who knows? Maybe she’ll like it here.” She winked in Emmett’s direction, and then one of her friends—a bridesmaid, Emmett recalled—pulled her away.

“That was about me, wasn’t it?” Emmett asked, all innocence. Noel laughed.

“Come on, dude. It would be the best possible outcome for me and Ashley. You and I are practically related already, and she’d give anything to give her sister a permanent tie here.”

Emmett shrugged. “I do love a mystery.”

No further conversation could be had on the subject, because Marnie suddenly appeared between them.

“There’s a storm coming up,” she announced, waving her martini ruefully. “We’re all sticking indoors for now.” She had tied some filmy coverup over her suit. Harry would have been drooling, Emmett was sure. It was a pity Harry wasn’t here, for more reasons than one.

One such reason was that Marnie had no intention, it seemed, of leaving Emmett alone. Due to his administrative approach all summer, he’d had almost no chance to catch up with Noel alone since Noel’s wedding. Now, in a blur of people competing for attention, he’d finally gotten Noel to himself, and here was Marnie, screwing it up again. He did his best to find a balance between politeness and staring daggers.

It was no use. Marnie wasn’t good at reading a room. She sat closer and closer to Emmett whenever she could come up with the slightest excuse to move. It was obvious. Emmett hated when things were obvious.

At last he set his drink down and dashed off to the bathroom. He washed his face and stared in the mirror and wondered what the point of this day was, now that they were going to get stormed out of a pleasant evening. It had all seemed well and good when the weather was fine, when Harry was coming, and Marnie hadn’t been such a hanger-on. But maybe Marnie always had been—

He was accosted from both sides when he came back out. Marnie, coming from the kitchen, handed him his drink. Mom bustled in from the porch.

“Emmett, I think there’s a tsunami coming.” She clutched at his arm. “We never should have come here, hon. What was I thinking?”

He drained his drink, set it down, and guided Mom to the main room. “We’ll head out soon,” he said, putting aside his nascent hopes of midnight walks along the beach. With whom would he take such a walk, anyway?  “It’s just a thunderstorm.” It was also just his luck. “Hey, Ike? Ready to head out?”

Ike, when informed of the storm, was equally panicked. They were all being horrifically loud about it—one of Ashley and Noel’s friends had a phobia of thunder, or something. Normally, Emmett would have stuck around to make sure Mom calmed down, but all the noise was stabbing him right between the eyes. He got out of the room and headed upstairs. There was a covered porch up here, he was pretty sure. Somewhere to get some air, that fresh _wild_ breeze that always came with a storm—that would just do it.

He didn’t make it to the porch. Too much salt in the margarita, or something—his head was aching, and everything looked a little weird. Where was Noel? He could have sworn he was talking to him a second ago—

Marnie loomed beside him, proportions oddly clownish before she collapsed back to her usual size. Emmett blinked, hard, and the world steadied a bit.

“Are you OK?”

“Not really.” The words felt cottony in his mouth.

“Let’s get you somewhere you can sit down.” She pushed open a door—it was one of the guest rooms. Emmett couldn’t remember if they were supposed to be up here or not. Where were they, again?

“I paid for this place,” he mumbled. Marnie steered him to the bed, and he sat down.

She sat down beside him. Awfully close. “Let’s just stay here for a minute.”

“Weird.” Emmett rubbed a hand over his forehead. “I feel weird.” Then he went stiff. Her hand was on his chest. He felt a chill, and realized that it was her fingers against his skin: she was undoing the buttons on his shirt.

“I’ve wanted you since the first moment I saw you,” Marnie breathed, and he blinked _really_ hard this time. She was too close, he _hated_ this, God, why had he gotten so drunk? He’d had one drink, what was _happening_? What was she _saying_?

“What—”

“Shh…” she pressed a hand to his lips and pushed him back. The ceiling swam overhead.  He felt her weight on his chest, and his mouth stung with salt, and he sat up. “What are you doing?” she whispered.

“Harry—”

That worked, for a moment. She pulled back, confused. Emmett strung his tattered thoughts together. Marnie sat back, but her fingers were still tangled in his shirt. “What about Harry?”

“You like him.” It took pretty much all he had to say those words. “You…Harry…why are you—”

“I don’t like _Harry_ , you idiot. I like _you_.” And she was holding him down again, and he knew he should be able to stop her, but it was like he couldn’t get his hands to do what they were supposed to. The were just heavy and useless, and Marnie had him by the shoulders and her mouth was wetly pressed to his—

Something in him woke up _enough_ , at that. He shoved her away, hard, and she fell off the bed, sprawling on the floor.

“What the _hell_ , Emmett?”

“Get out,” he said. “Just—get out.”

Marnie’s face was red. Or maybe it was her hair, reflecting on her face? He couldn’t tell; his head felt like it was running its own internal fireworks display. But she got up and went out without another word.

He was shaking. His hands were shaking and he could still feel her on him, even though he knew that she was gone.

He lay back on the bed for a while, trying to get everything to come together. Standing up was hell; he slumped and fell heavily to his knees.

There was a knock on the door.

“Emmett?”

 _Shit_. It was Grace. The last person who should ever—he forced himself to his feet again.

“Yeah?”

She opened the door. Her eyebrows went up; even in whatever hell of a state he was in, Grace’s face was perfectly clear. He didn’t know what she was looking at, and then he remembered, in a compartment of memory that seemed to float by him, visible enough to poke at, that he looked kind of half-dressed at the moment.

“Sorry about—I—” He fumbled for the buttons. They kept getting away from him. Grace pressed her lips into a hard line, stepped forward, and did them up for him.

“I’ll take you home,” she said. “Everyone else left already.”

Holy—he’d lost track of time. (What was time?) “But you didn’t.”

“They were freaking out about the storm. Ike remembered right as they were going that no one knew where you were. I told them I’d find you.”

He moved to follow her out the door, but his feet wouldn’t seem to stay in line with each other. Grace heaved out a sigh, and said, “ _Christ_ , Emmett,” under her breath. Grace didn’t usually swear a lot. He might not remember much, but he remembered that.

She was staring straight ahead, but she looped his arm over her shoulders and they made it downstairs somehow. The house was empty. He’d paid for it, but the day was over. They’d all left him.

Everyone but Grace, and Grace was saying nothing at all.

Outside, the wind was billowing and gusting and there was a battalion of raindrops waiting to drench them. They made it to the car and Grace turned on her fog lights. The waves were still crashing against the shore. The waves, at least, kept going.

Grace stayed silent while they drove. Emmett thought of making conversation, but his tongue felt briny and thick. It wasn’t worth it. And anyway, a glance revealed that she still had that hard line in her jaw. It got him right in between every rib, somehow.

He shut his eyes against her disappointment and pressed his cheek against the window. It was cold—refreshing, really. The way the rain pattered against the glass was a comfort. Something to get him through, all the miles back to Highbury—but before _that_ thought was even fully formed, his stomach rebelled.

“Pull over,” he burst out, and Grace shot him a quick look as she did.

He practically fell out the door, into a conveniently located puddle, and was puking before he even hit the ground.

Vaguely, somewhere around the third or fourth thought bubble that he could practically _see_ above his head, was the realization that this was rock bottom. He’d been an occasional idiot in college, but he’d never been literally spilling his guts, hands and knees and asphalt and a goddamn _thunderstorm_ , while Grace Caballero looked on as stoic and cold as marble, even in the pouring rain.

She helped him up. He dribbled vomit on her shoes. Saying sorry didn’t really seem worthwhile, at this point, so he clamped his mouth shut.

Grace’s hair was plastered against her cheeks. Her eyes were hard and dark but it was late out, he told himself. How could he really know what she was thinking?

His hands were still shaking. He couldn’t exactly _feel_ them shaking, but he could see that they were.

For a long time, it seemed that Grace was going to stonewall him all the way home. At long last, when they were on Hartfield road, she said, “Why do you do it?”

Emmett ran the edge of his tongue over his lips. “Do what?”

Her shoulders slumped. Were her hands shaking too? No, they were perfectly steady on the wheel. “Never mind.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Triggers: Attempted, non-graphic sexual assault.


	12. Chapter XII

_“It was rather too late in the day to set about being simple-minded and ignorant.”_

_i._

Grace was cleaning her attic.

“Why are you so terrible?” Julia asked, poking her head in. “It’s hot, and stuffy, and _awful_ up here.”

“I’ll be down, I just—”

“We’re leaving tomorrow. You’ve been checked out all day, and now you’re just straight-up absent. Why are you being a brat on our last night?”

Grace rocked back on her heels. She had showered twice since last night, but in the dense heat, her hair was Medusa-like, slithering down her neck with sweat.  It was after ten, but Julia and Ike were always staying up late watching television. She should be with them, as hostess. “You’re right,” she said, with a sigh. “I’m sorry.”

She followed Julia out of the attic, but Julia blocked her in the hall. “What did our favorite frat-boy-with-a-heart-of-gold do now?”

“Emmett wasn’t really in a frat.”

“He totally was. Shocker.” Julia cocked her head, one earring brushing her shoulder. “Which of your rose-tinted hopes did he screw up this time?”

Grace pushed away the memory of Emmett, stumbling against the hood of her car, wiping his mouth on his sleeve, unable to look her in the eye.

“He was a disaster last night. You saw.”

“He seemed a little green right before we left, but he wasn’t a disaster,” Julia said, with that annoying certainty that had ruffled Grace’s stoicism since their teenage days. “Too much sun?”

“He got shitfaced,” Grace returned, stoically. “So much for the attentive host.”

“Stop being such a bitch, Grace! He had one drink. We literally talked about this. I heard one of Ashley’s dumb friends—Lila? Went to high-school with her, hated her—offer him something and he said he wasn’t in the mood. I swear he was not drunk when we were all heading out…and didn’t you drive him home, like, half an hour later?”

Grace rubbed at a streak of dust on her hand. “I…are you sure?”

“Yeah. He moped around looking at you—don’t interrupt—and talking with Noel. Kind of lost without Harry, if you ask me. Guys are such babies.”  Julia rolled her eyes. “Speaking of baby, he’s starting up again. Oh, my _god_ , child. Mama’s _coming_!” She stalked off down the hall.

Grace swallowed hard.

She told Ike she was going for a walk. He raised his eyebrows and said nothing, which, _screw Ike_. How did Julia even put up with him?

_Whoa. Why are you being so irritable?_

Maybe because she’d barely slept the night before. Maybe because she’d shaken Emmett’s hand two days ago and felt her good will thrown back in her face last night. Maybe because she always seemed to want the most from Emmett right before he disappointed her again.

 _But what if_ —

There was no explanation she would like. Grace half-walked, half-jogged to Hartfield, and tapped on the front door, praying to every saint she knew that Mrs. Woodhouse wouldn’t hear. She supposed she could have thrown gravel at Emmett’s window; it was the sort of thing he would do, if given the chance, but this was too…serious.

A light flicked on; the door opened. All six-feet-two-inches of him, silhouetted in gold, stood before her.

“You could have called,” Emmett said. His hair was falling over his forehead. He was wearing sweatpants slung low on his hips, and a t-shirt with the tag sticking out of the collar. His face still looked a little gray; there were dark circles under his eyes. So much less—perfect than usual.

Grace’s fingers itched to fix that tag. She restrained herself. “I wanted to see you in person.”

“OK.” There was something a little lacking; was it his levity? The spark in his eyes? But oh, when was she ever one to seek out a spark?

Grace laced her fingers together and tried to keep her voice perfectly level. “What happened last night?”

He lowered his head, not looking at her, and ran a hand over the back of his neck. “You really going to make me relive it? Vomiting on your shoes?”

“You didn’t have too much to drink. Julia told me.”

He went still, elbow still crooked behind his head. His eyes flicked up towards hers.  

“Emmett, tell me what happened.”

He moved his hands to his pockets. He looked uncomfortable, awkward, even. And to her knowledge, Emmett had never been awkward. Last night he hadn’t been himself; that didn’t count.

“You were right,” he said, after a moment’s pause.

“What?”

He cleared his throat. “About Marnie.”

A little cold fear crooked a finger between Grace’s ribs. “What about Marnie?” Marnie at the party had been Marnie as always—fawning over Emmett, laughing too loud, and then…well, Grace hadn’t seen much of her, towards the end.

“She wasn’t interested in Harry. Apparently…” He paused, and his mouth twisted wryly. “Apparently her _interest_ tended in quite another direction.”

Grace chewed her lip. She remembered, last night, when she was collecting drinks on the porch, as the storm was coming up—

 _“Oh, that glass is Emmett’s—I’ll take it—_ ”

The finger of fear tugged hard. “Emmett…did Marnie—”

He shook his head, like he didn’t want to keep talking about it. “I’m fine, Grace. Just—a little hungover. Still.”

Grace closed the distance between him, and set her hands on his shoulders without thinking twice about it. She thought he trembled a little, under her touch. “Did she hurt you?”

A flush spread over his face, from his cheekbones to his ears. “Seriously? She’s like a foot shorter than me.”

“ _Did she hurt you_?”

Emmett’s teeth worried his lower lip. “It didn’t go anywhere.”

No, not _anywhere_...just Emmett, shaken, in a bedroom, without any reason for being there. Emmett, huddled in her car. Emmett, vomiting on the roadside in the rain, listening to her silence, thinking that she was _ashamed_ of him—

Grace saw him wince, and realized that her fingers were digging into his shoulders. She let him go. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “What can I do? Should I— _can_ I kill her?”

He smiled. It started at one corner of his mouth and spread slyly over his features. “Oh, Grace,” he said, and his eyes did _glint_ but his voice sounded tired—“Is _this_ what it takes to provoke you to violence?”

She folded her arms, trying to compose herself. She was furious, but there wasn’t any use in showing it. She had already said too much. “I exaggerated. But really, Emmett. What she did was—it was horribly wrong, and I can’t believe…I should have known…”

“Why would you have known? I was blind to everything, but nobody expects a spiked drink at a friendly party.” He tipped his chin back, throat pale in the moonlight, and ran a hand through his hair. “I’m an idiot. It’s alright, Grace. I’m getting used to the idea, lately.”

She wanted to throw her arms around him. He needed a sister, didn’t he? Or maybe he needed something else. She kept her arms tight against her chest. “I’ve been really harsh with you, lately,” she said. “And I’m sorry. I should know better than to think that everyone suffers the same way.”

Emmett said, very lightly, “I’m not suffering.”

It was late. A secret time of night, when people said things too quickly to forget. “I’m sorry,” Grace repeated, almost numbly. She turned—he caught her wrist.

The next instant, he was hugging her, arms linked round her, hands pressing her shoulder blades. Her face was pressed against his chest, warm through his thin t-shirt. Grace tightened her arms in response. Emmett rested his forehead on her shoulder.

They stayed like that, for a long moment. Then Emmett pulled back, and he was his old self again. “Lucky,” he said. “I’m damn lucky to have—a sister like you.”

 _Sister_. It was always the word she used herself, but it never seemed to be what she wanted when it was on his lips.

Grace felt the small but permanent weight of it, like a pebble falling, from her heart down to her feet.

_ii._

There were a hundred ways to be wrong. Sometimes, you were all of them at once.

Emmett woke up late the next day, and wished he could keep sleeping. The only comforting thought was the memory of Grace’s eyes, softer than he’d even hoped for, and the warmth of Grace’s arms around him.

Ike and Julia and Eddie were heading home. They stopped by Hartfield house to say goodbye. Ike and Mom traded their respective terrors over the thunderstorm at the beach.

Emmett turned to Julia, and asked, low, “Why’d you talk to Grace about me?”

Julia quirked a brow, and he knew he wasn’t getting a straight answer. “Did you know that you’re an idiot?”

“Go away, Julia.”

She hugged him briefly and let him press a kiss to the downy top of Eddie’s head. “I am going away. Lucky for you, Grace _isn’t_.”

He could only answer that with a simple goodbye.

Grace’s visit might have set one part of his soul at easy, but it left another, more presently painful task ahead of him. He had to set things straight with Harry. And that would sting, all the more sharply for how much it was Emmett’s own fault. Harry would never have drummed up any hopes; Harry would never have put himself forward—Harry had even suggested, on occasion, that Marnie’s pursuit had a different quarry.

But Emmett was blind to it all, because Emmett never wanted things to be obvious.

He visited Harry’s apartment, germs and all, later that afternoon. If he caught some terrible strain of stomach flu, it was just penance for his sins. He should ask Grace, sometime, what the worst kind of sin was.

“Hey man,” Harry said. “How was the party?”

Emmett wouldn’t relive the half-hour that followed for anything.

The worst part was that Harry wasn’t angry at _him_. No, Harry was just hurt, without placing any blame—Emmett had left out the particulars of the incident itself, because those were to be known only by him, and Marnie, and Grace to whatever extent she’d intuited.

Harry was hurt, because someone he trusted had built up his every hope and then the truth had brought them crashing down.

Emmett drove. He drove until he didn’t know where he was anymore, and then he sat with his hands on the wheel, staring straight ahead.

His grand plan for the summer had combusted, and the debris had found its way to more lives than his own.

He had been a fool. Because only a fool wouldn’t have seen through Marnie, from the very first moment they met, and only a fool would have thought that she wasn’t going to try to pull something when the opportunity presented itself, and only a fool—

He was only a fool.

Grace had known. And he still couldn’t be certain that Rosa and Harry were right for each other, but he _could_ admit that he was the farthest thing from any kind of authority. It was a wonder that Grace forgave him ever, or at all.

Only a few months ago, Harry hadn’t even _known_ him—and Harry had been better off. Emmett wished, for the first time, that he could be more like Harry, instead of the other way around. Not with such…occasional vacancy, of course. Even in the depths of self-flagellation, he couldn’t wish for _that_. But there was something very right about aspiring to be more like the person whose happiness had been wronged by one’s own arrogance and blindness. Harry was genuine, fair, and patient.

Most importantly, he didn’t screw with other people’s lives.

The hateful thing was that Emmett probably had more in common with Marnie than he did with Harry—calculation, self-promotion, all the same kinds of ugliness that had led to last night. He tried to shake off the odds and ends of memories and focus on his own faults, independent of hers. The sooner Marnie was forgotten, the better.

The sooner Emmett changed his ways, the better still.

_A hundred ways to be wrong._

Emmett tapped the wheel, and said aloud, “I’m never going to advise anyone, ever again.”

And as he was as violently remorseful as he had previously been violently confident, he was sure that he meant it.


	13. Chapter XIII

_"There is one thing, which a man can always do, if he chooses, and that is, his duty; not by maneuvering and finessing, but by vigour and resolution."_

_i._

"You've started painting again."

"Well…yes," Emmett said, brushing at a paint-smear on his index finger. "Just here and there. Even brilliance gets bored."

"Especially bored, I would say." Grace fell into step beside him. It was Saturday; she was running errands and apparently Emmett was too. Highbury was quiet, in late July—the strawberry rush was over. And Grace could acknowledge, without undue vanity, that strawberries were the chief element of Highbury's appeal.

 "This has been a long summer," Emmett observed. He had a sheaf of envelopes in his hand—they'd met outside the post office—and he kept fanning them in and out. Nervous energy, always.

"Only because you're not gallivanting around Europe."

"True."

"You might have, again." Grace paused. "You might have—well, you didn't  _have_  to come back here at all."

"But Mom would die." He said that confidently, like it was something he needed.

They were walking side by side. In an older time, Grace thought, she would have taken his arm.  _Goodness. You shouldn't have left Masterpiece Theatre on last night_.

Emmett stopped short before a café and turned to her with an expectant expression.

"Yes, Emmett?"

"Let's have coffee."

"Thank you," Grace said, "But I've already had a cup today."

He scoffed at this.  "A cup? You work harder than anyone I know, and you're really going to pretend that it's all done on a solitary, sensible cup of coffee? Let me guess, you take it without sugar."

"You know that I do."

"Don't make me beg," Emmett said, and mimed getting down on knee.

Something in Grace's chest felt weird. She rolled her eyes instead of questioning it. "Fine, I'll come in and have another coffee."

Emmett beamed. "Excellent. We'll sit in that window and people-watch."

Grace let him open the door for her, but she firmly protested his plan. "I'm not going to judge pedestrians with you, Em."

He cocked his head. "Is that how they fit the work ethic into people? They take all the fun out first?"

Grace refused to be ruffled. She ordered her coffee and sat down at the table, crossing her ankles. It  _was_ a cute little place—the chairs were woven out of honey-colored wicker, and the table had a mosaic inlay, which she examined appreciatively.

Emmett bought something tall and opulent and ridiculous, smothered by a snowcap of whipped cream. Then he propped his chin on his hand and stared at her.

"What are you doing?"

"Well if we can't people-watch, I'll just have to person-watch. And you're my person."

Grace refused to blush. "Tell me about what you're painting, silly boy."

"You," he answered lightly. "If I could only get the eyes right."

That did make her blush—but it was surprise, only surprise, nothing more. "You've tried painting me?"

" _Try_  being the operative word." He ran his tongue over his upper lip, capturing a dot of whipped cream.

"What's wrong with my eyes?"

 _His_ eyes were suddenly fixed on hers, inscrutable and unshakeable all at once. "Nothing."

Grace finished her coffee and leaned against the curve of her chair. The conversation was getting a little too personal, or the café was a little too warm, or something. She turned to the window, seeking relief. "Oh, look! There's Arthur."

"Ha!" Emmett snapped his fingers. "You  _are_  people-watching!"

Grace shot him a look. "I just noticed our  _friend_."

 "Your friend, maybe. He drives me up a wall."

"He's very kind." She knew Emmett wasn't fond of Arthur Bates, and it always annoyed her. She shouldn't have mentioned him at all.

"Kindness is not one of my favorite virtues,' Emmett said archly. "It tells you so little about a person. So many dull, unlikable people are  _kind_. Most often it's a platitude meant to indicate that someone is neither attractive, interesting, nor witty."

"That," Grace said, with chilly calm, "Is one of the most awful things you've ever said."

He wilted. It was likely all for show. "Don't be mad. I'm not even halfway through this drink yet."

"That abomination, you mean?"

He reached across the table and grabbed her hand. "Grace! Don't desert me to the fires of hell before my time."

"Don't be rude, then."

"I promise I'll be the picture of politeness next time Arthur comes to dinner, alright?"

"It doesn't count unless you mean it."

"If that were true, the world would fall to pieces."

Grace shrugged, conscious that Emmett's hand was still covering hers, warm and large and paint-splattered. "Perhaps it has," she said, and took her hand away.

"New topic," he said, seemingly satisfied that she wasn't going to abandon him just yet. "I was at Noel and Ashley's last night. Francesca was supposed to come next week, but she's cancelled again."

"I'm not surprised," Grace said. "It doesn't reflect well on Francesca, though."

"Why?" Emmett demanded, getting that devil's advocate gleam in his eye. "It's her fault that her mom moved her halfway across the country?"

"Please," Grace said. "That was ages ago. No, it's her fault that she keeps promising her sister that she's going to visit, and never does. Ashley has flown out there a bunch of times, you know she has. And Francesca hasn't returned the favor even once. Not even for the wedding."

"Maybe it's a delicate topic."

"Maybe she's a self-centered young person who doesn't appreciate her sister's affection."

"Way harsh," Emmett said, with a lift of his eyebrows. "You know very well how complicated these things can be. If her mom is on bad terms with Ashley's dad, still, maybe she doesn’t want Francesca traveling out west."

"But Francesca can travel to Hawaii for vacation, as we learned from her sister." Grace returned him eyebrow for eyebrow. "I am sure Noel speaks more to you than me about it, but when he did speak to me he seemed unhappy that Ashley keeps getting her hopes up, all for nothing."

"Isn't deferred gratification the best? You used to lecture me about it. Ashley will probably be all the happier when Francesca finally does visit, from all this anticipation."

"I know you're just arguing with me for the sake of it," Grace said, turning her coffee cup on its saucer. "I hope she does come, and soon, so Ashley can be happy."

Emmett leaned back in his chair and gazed prospectively at the ceiling. "After her many years as a legend, it would be interesting to meet her. She'll talk strawberries with you, be  _kind_  to Arthur, find the way to Noel's heart instantly, and of course, people-watch with me."

"I will not be easily charmed by someone who makes charming people their goal," Grace said. Maybe she  _was_  a little stubborn on that point, but considering what was across the table from her, she figured it was warranted. "If she is friendly and intelligent, I'll enjoy her company. I think it's more likely that she is pampered, self-centered, and self-impressed. In any event, I won't lionize someone for any reason. Her current track record hasn't done much to change my mind."

"Lionize," Emmett repeated. "Nice word. Nobody's said it for approximately eighty years, of course, but still."

Grace glanced at her watch. "I should go," she said. "Please tell your mother I said hello."

_ii._

Grace and her unpaintable eyes remained an enigma. Emmett  _had_  been teasing her—he was positively disposed to the elusive Francesca, but not so much that he couldn't see the other side of things—but he'd been surprised by how much Grace pushed back.

Grace was generally—no, not just generally,  _always_ —the one to give people the benefit of the doubt. Hell, she even put up with Arthur Bates' rambling! It was odd, then, that her patience was worn so thin before even meeting Francesca Church.

Grace's patience, which had even been bestowed on Marnie, for a time.

Emmett though of Marnie as little as he could these days. To Grace, he never spoke of her—he'd shown far too much of  _something_  to Grace, and he didn't want to revisit the feeling. It was an embarrassment, sure. A reckoning for his own judgment, maybe. But it could go no further. The memory of that night was better locked away forever, or at least until it became irrelevant.

Marnie had gone away. She'd taken a job with Augusta Realty, and it had taken her out of town for training. Maybe she would stay away.

Emmett certainly hoped so.

But what Emmett's hopes could not achieve, seemingly, was Harry's silence on the subject. Harry, in all the grief of a heart broken twice in a month, talked of nothing but Marnie.

It grated, but Emmett figured it was his rightful penance.

Grace had left the café like a shot. Emmett felt a pang that he had chased her away with his relentless defense of Francesca, but reminded himself that Grace kept a busy schedule even on weekends. She'd have found an excuse to leave him before long, regardless of what he said.

He had three new texts from Harry. Marnie's name was mentioned twice.

Had Emmett heard from her? Had she said when she was coming back?

He shut off his phone, left a tip on the table, and stepped out into the sunshine.

And dammit, he'd picked the wrong moment, because Arthur Bates was headed  _straight at him_.

And Grace was right, Arthur Bates  _was_  kind, with his threadbare clothes and spotty glasses and perennial dinner invitations from families far better off than he was. He was treated well by the town because he'd grown up with Emmett's mother and a handful of Goddards and the Coles of the Cole & Hammon law firm—and he was boring as all hell.

Emmett had, no doubt, run through this same progression of thought before. And that was the thing about Arthur. He made even other people's _thoughts_  repetitive and dull.

"Emmett! Emmett Woodhouse? I know you're past the age where you grow anymore, but my lord, you are tall. Tall as your father was, I'm sure. How are you, son?"

Emmett fixed on a smile so polite that even Grace could not have taken issue with it.

 _It doesn't count unless you mean it_.

"Good to see you, Arthur. Going in for a coffee?"  _Please, God, go in and get a coffee so that I can escape._

Arthur blinked in the direction of the café. "Coffee? Oh, no, no. I drink more tea these days to be quite honest with you. Tea sits better in my old stomach, to be quite honest with you. I used to be quite the coffee-drinker in my younger days, I'll tell you that. Quite the coffee drinker."

Holy  _hell_ , he spoke so  _slowly_. Emmett's grin was getting stiff. How did Grace  _do_ it? She visited the Bates every Sunday, had for years. At least, she'd been doing it since before he left for college, and knowing Grace, she'd been doing it ever since.

"You're all on your own today," Arthur observed, after he had exhausted the subject of hot beverages (and Emmett, by extension). "No Harry? No Marnie?"

"Harry's around somewhere," Emmett said. And before he had to answer for Marnie's whereabouts, he added quickly, "Heard from Jake lately?"

"Didn't you hear?"

 _No, of course I didn't, because I try to avoid you at all costs_. "Hear what?"

"Jake's between jobs at the moment. Just finished a tour with an orchestra, and he's between jobs. I don't doubt he'll get something really grand. Really grand. But he's going to be staying with me and Father for a while. Music is very taxing, and you know he's always worked himself so hard."

"Jake is coming  _here_ ," Emmett said, with all the manufactured enthusiasm he could muster. It was precious little, but it would have to do. "How…exciting."

"I'm delighted. Truly delighted. And you boys will be reunited! I'm fortunate—very fortunate—to share this town with so many childhood friends. But you know, not everyone does. Not everyone has that chance. So I'm sure you'll both be so glad…so very glad…to see each other again."

"I'm sure," Emmett said, through his teeth.

"I think I have one of his letters here—" Arthur hunted around in his pocket.

Emmett could bear it no longer. "I wouldn't keep you," he said. "I've got a meeting…at the—bank, Arthur. I'll tell my mom about Jake, though. She'll be…thrilled."

Thank God those spotted spectacles apparently dimmed Arthur's ability to perceive thinly veiled desperation. "A busy young man!" he exclaimed, waving a hand. "Some other time, Emmett. Some other time."

"Not if I can help it," Emmett muttered, when he was a good distance away. So much for politeness. All the kindness in the world wasn't enough to make conversation of such a glacial pace at all palatable. Grace could have her inexplicable prejudice against Francesca Church; Emmett could have his grating, insurmountable resentments against Arthur Bates and all his people.

Which, speaking of, screw Jake Fairfax.

Emmett had never liked Jake.

Jake was very talented, very reserved, and very well-respected. Something about the combination was loathsome—and no,  _Grace_ , it couldn’t be explained. Nor should Emmett have to explain it. To each their own, right?

Emmett drove home in a sour mood, and vowed to paint Grace's eyes successfully.

Grace's eyes did not cooperate.


	14. Chapter XIV

_"It was a dislike so little just—every imputed fault was so magnified by fancy."_

_i._

"No, Mama. I'm not switching over the business…we're just doing what you always wanted, selling baked goods. No, I can't do them all myself. That wouldn’t be feasible, and you know the health codes are something fierce." Grace rubbed the back of her neck and formed each word slowly and deliberately. It took more effort, because most of her fights and petulance throughout her life—and yes, she could be occasionally petulant—had been in Spanish. English always pulled her down like a brick. "No. I wouldn't entrust the baking to the Coles. I'm contracting with a bakery. Just had Mr. Cole draw up the contract." She glanced across the street and squinted in the sunlight, trying to get a good look at the man standing in front of the music store, with his back turned. "Can I call you back, Mama? Love you."

In a few quick strides, she had crossed the street, and exclaimed, with as much exuberance as she ever allowed herself, "Jake?"

He turned. She knew she had recognized the slim set of his shoulders—broader, now, in a checked cotton shirt; the same close-cropped curls and graceful neck. When he turned, he looked very serious for a moment, and then he smiled.

"Grace?"

They hugged.

"It's been what, six years?"

"Almost." He'd always been handsome, in Grace's opinion, but he'd definitely come into his own since he'd left to head out East. Of course, it was only natural: sixteen and twenty-two were a world of difference, unless you were Emmett, who had hit puberty like a home-run. "Did Uncle Arthur tell you I was coming?"

"Yeah, yeah he did." Grace tossed off an affectionate shrug. "He keeps me in the loop."

Jake smiled wryly. "I bet."

Without thinking twice, she tugged at his arm. She was being almost bubbly, and she knew it, but she was just— _glad_. Glad to have an old friend returned. A simple and straight-forward kind of return. "Can I take you to lunch? Or are you running some kind of important errand?"

"Just poking about. I told Uncle Arthur I'd pick up some milk, but I've gotten a little turned around."

"I'll turn you right again," Grace promised. "You'll have the lay of the place in no time. So, you just finished a tour with the Campbell orchestra, right?"

He ducked his head affirmatively. "Right."

"I'd love to hear about it."

"Sure." Jake was smiling again, but Grace thought he looked tired. Of course. He'd probably flown in the night before. Before she could reassure him that he didn't need to do anything on her account, at the moment, he added, "Uncle Arthur tells me you've taken over Knightley farms. Is that true?"

Grace nodded, sighing a little. "Yes, it is. The parents decided to retire. Can't say I blame them." And it wasn't blame, exactly. Not  _blame_.

Jake's dark eyes scanned her face thoughtfully. "That must be hard for you."

"It's been pretty stressful, I won't lie. And we have different visions, you know? So they don't always give me advice that I can use." Like Mom, fussing over the bakery, which Grace had been so sure she'd love.

"Like changing the name to Caballero?"

"Like that."

"I approve," Jake said. "Chips at that old white paint a little, right?"

Grace chuckled. This was something they'd always shared—stuck in the wrong part of Cali, as they were wont to joke. "Have you heard from your Dad at all?"

"He got some gigs. He's in NYC. We got dinner a couple times."

A couple times, in six years? Grace knew better than to offer sympathy; Jake wouldn’t want it. But still—she pressed her lips together.

Twenty-three years ago, Arthur Bates' sister Nora had run off with an L.A. jazz musician. A  _black_ jazz musician, Highbury gossip made sure to add, which of course, to the minds of some, made it worse. Lou Fairfax had passed his talent to his son, but hadn't left much else. Neither had Nora; after Lou moved on, she left Jake with Arthur and had pursued an acting career. It hadn't gone anywhere.

Nora didn't really come back.

Grace knew that Jake—at least, sixteen-year-old Jake—didn't talk to his mom. But his dad was an occasional figure of influence, if only for their shared bond of music.  _Dinner, a couple times_.  _Six years_.

"I'm sure he's proud of you."

"Maybe." Jake paused in front of a familiar red and white shop-front. "Ah. Supermarket. Milk."

Grace put a hand on his arm as they passed through the automatic doors. "I'm thrilled to see you, Jake, but I know you must be pretty exhausted. I don't mean to make it worse by pestering you with questions."

His eyes crinkled softly at the corners. "I'm never too tried to catch up with you. You're the least tiring person I know."

And maybe she was overthinking things, forgetting that not every man of her acquaintance talked at a million miles an hour. As it turned out, _that_ was an unfortunately prophetic thought, because it prompted the appearance of the  _most_  tiring person anyone ever knew.

"Oh my God," Emmett practically drawled, "Jacob Fairfax."

What Emmett was doing in a supermarket was beyond Grace; the Woodhouses had their groceries delivered.

"Emmett," Jake said, with a smile that reached  _polite_  and not a millimeter farther.

They shook hands.

The subsequent silence was unbearable. "What are you doing here, Emmett?" Grace asked, with an eyebrow lifted to show it was a serious question.

"I stop by every now and then to see if they've finally started carrying caviar," Emmett returned, slyly. It was, of course, no answer at all. "How are things, Jake?"

"Pretty well, thank you."

Emmett circled them like a prowling cat. "You just finished with the Campbell orchestra, right? You must know David Campbell."

"He's a friend."

Grace had no idea who David Campbell was.

"Hell of a guy. Saw him at a gala last year, up in Boston. So you must have met Lindsey Dixon?"

Lindsey Dixon was an actress. Grace knew  _that_  much.

A little muscle in Jake's jaw twitched. If Grace saw it, Emmett  _definitely_ saw it, since he seemed to be watching for it. "Yes."

"Lindsey Dixon and David Campbell are engaged," Emmett mentioned, aside, to Grace. "How lovely for you to know both halves of the happy couple. Are you going to be best man?'

What the hell was Emmett doing? There was an obnoxiously predatory gleam in his eye.

Jake said, very stiffly, "I don't think so. I'm sorry, but I really have to run—Uncle Arthur was expecting me back. Good to see you, Grace. Emmett." He strode off briskly, without looking back.

Grace wheeled on Emmett. "What the hell was that?"

Emmett rocked back on his heels and his eyes twinkled down at her. "You look cute today, Grace. New dress?"

She ignored the flattery. "Answer my question."

He yawned lazily, reminding Grace of one of those stupid, oafish lions who sunned themselves while the females did all the work. Only Emmett wasn't oafish, even at his worst. "I'm just turning a new leaf over, trying to be friendly."

"You've clearly pissed him off. In record time, even for you."

Emmett widened his eyes innocently. "Shame on you, Grace." He plucked a bag of potato chips off the shelf. "Have to dash too, I'm afraid—Harry and I are going hiking."

She watched him leave, puzzled and annoyed. She knew perfectly well that Emmett had never liked Jake, but considering that there had been no real reason for it, she had let herself hope…well, that Emmett would get over it and start behaving with even a marginal increase in maturity.

Apparently not.

_ii._

"I don't know," Harry offered tentatively, munching on a chip. "He sounds like a pretty nice guy."

"He could practically be made of cardboard, for all the personality he has," Emmett opined bitterly. The memory of Grace's easy,  _respectful_ smile, directed at Jake, was still a freshly gaping wound. What did it take? Learn how to tinkle your way through a few, OK, admittedly brilliant and complicated compositions and Grace Caballero crowned you the Sun King?

"Have you known him for a while?"

"Yes, I got to suffer through his grade-school years and beyond. He's always been a sanctimonious little shit. I even gave up piano lessons because of him."

"Why?"

_Because everyone said he was better_. "Hated putting up with him at concerts." Emmett switched lanes, his thumb tapping the wheel in a staccato rhythm. "But get this. OK, so, he's been touring his way around with the Campbell orchestra. Heard of it?"

"No."

_Of course you haven't._  "It's mildly famous. Whatever. Anyway, he's tight with David Campbell, who's the son. I've hung out with him a few times. Nice dude. A little blank. Not good-looking. But still. Chill. So Jake is friends with this guy, and guess who David's engaged to?"

Harry had no guesses.

"Lindsey Dixon. Heard of  _her_?"

"Oh, yeah. She's in—"

"Just about every movie ever. Right. So they're engaged. There was a blind item—"

"Marnie used to read blind items," Harry said wistfully. They were on the highway.

_Damn it._  "Stay focused, bro. There was a blind item about an actress and a musician in a high-profile orchestra potentially breaking off their engagement because she'd fallen for one of his friends,  _also_  in the orchestra."

"OK." Harry's brows drew together.

At this point, Emmett had gotten used to doing the heavy-lifting. "When I ran into Arthur Bates the other day, he told me Jake had finished up with the orchestra. But then when Arthur came to dinner a few nights later—believe me, the horror is very real—he told my mom that he wasn't sure why Jake was leaving, it had all been so sudden. He said Jake wouldn't say much about it. And then I had this epiphany." He glanced at Harry, and continued, since he must: "What if the blind item is about Lindsey and David, and the friend who came between them was Jake?"

"Wow," Harry breathed. "Dude, you're so wicked smart. Like, all the time."

Emmett smirked. "Nothing more than a little deduction. But when I saw him today, I tested my theory. And holy smokes, did he look like a guilty man."

Harry shaded his eyes from the sun, and asked, after a moment, "But why does it matter?"

The proverbial wind was momentarily taken from Emmett's sails. "What do you mean?"

"Is it…like, is it important? Why he left?"

Of course it was. It was important because Jake didn't deserve the way Grace admired him, had always admired him, and people didn't get to play the perfect card without consequences. "I'm not going to send it in to  _Us Weekly_ , or anything. I'm just noting it for the record."

"Oh, OK." Harry turned suddenly towards the window. "Wow, look at that cool bird! Do you think it's an eagle?"

"No idea," Emmett said. His birding skills were not the issue (given the proper context, they were impeccable); the issue was that he'd thought Harry would be more appreciative of his observations. It was a pity—truly, a pity—that he didn't have a more equal and interested confidant.

A memory, unwelcome, hurled itself forward: Grace, fourteen, and Jake, twelve— _same age as Emmett, the parallel he could never shake_ —sitting side by side on the piano bench. Grace had her hand on his.

Jake was teaching her how to play.

Emmett had been standing in the doorway, and Emmett had been, worst of all fates,  _unnoticed_.

Even now, the question arose: where was the same appreciation for his art?

Oh, too far.  _Don't be pathetic._ He never allowed himself to be pathetic. At least, he hoped not.

He made light conversation with Harry as they drove into the hills. Hiking would take his mind off this, off Jake, off Grace—just some clean, bright, crystal air. Fragrant trees and summer sun and no such thing as competition.

 


	15. Chapter XV

_“What arises from discretion must be honored.”_

_i._

“He never used to do this, you know.”

“Do what?”

“Leave. He’s gotten so…responsible since he got home from college.”

Grace ignored the obvious contradiction—hadn’t Mrs. Woodhouse survived four years with minimal contact?—and nodded with as much sympathy as she could muster. “I think, though, that Emmett finds it very fulfilling to continue with the family charity.”

“Of course my husband cared about it very much. It used to annoy me then, too. I’ve never liked to be left _alone_ , Grace.” She sighed deeply. “And your parents left too. Do you know I got a letter the other day? A letter, as though we were living fifty years ago!”

“What did she say?”

“That I should _visit_ them.” Mrs. Woodhouse _did_ share her son’s flair for dramatic inflection. “Imagine! Me getting on a plane.”

 _Emmett couldn’t. Apparently college on the east coast wasn’t enough for that_. Sometimes Grace half-wondered if he’d been testing his mother’s devotion, by going so far way. The results could not have been to his satisfaction, but he seemed cheerful.

 _Seemed_.

“As long as I can help it, there _will_ be a Caballero at our farm.”

Mrs. Woodhouse smiled. It was Emmett’s smile—or his was hers—and it melted Grace just like it always did. “You’re coming tomorrow night, right?”

Grace winced. Mrs. Woodhouse’s tone implied something important, and Grace couldn’t _quite_ recall—“Please remind me,” she said, apologetically.

“Oh, it’s Arthur’s birthday. Would you believe? He’s sixty. _Sixty_. I’m hosting it here…just like we always do…”

Emmett would not enjoy that. Grace did not say so. “Of course I’ll come.” She almost said, _I have no social life_ , but that would melodramatic, and also, unkind. Her social life consisted largely of visiting the Woodhouses.

“I thought of inviting that Marnie girl that Emmett and Harry were so taken with, but she’s off the map! I haven’t seen her in ages.”

Grace swallowed the last of her tea. She set her cup and down and said, as firmly as she could, “That’s alright. I know that Mr. Bates would enjoy the company of old friends much more.”

Mrs. Woodhouse tilted her head, and then she nodded. She had a gossamer scarf spread over her knees like a lap blanket, and she adjusted it slightly. In winter, it would be a heavy cashmere, Grace knew. But Mrs. Woodhouse’s enjoyment of her own delicate health would not be contained by the fickle nature of seasons.  “Yes. And it will give Emmett an opportunity to catch up with Jake. He has not had a moment to spend with him yet, from what I can tell, even though it's been week! He’s been busy as anything. Painting, and driving south for meetings—he said he’s thinking about _investing_.”

“Wisely, I hope.”

“Emmett is always very wise.”

“But you’ll never convince Grace of that.”

Grace turned. She always controlled her motions; hated when people flailed around or jumped. Being startled gave too much power to other people. In not so many words: only her spine stiffened.

Emmett was in blue and white, too much like a clear day for Grace’s comfort. Crisp button-down, sleeves cuffed to the elbow. She wondered, offhandedly, if he still swore by _GQ_.

“Hon, you’re back!” Mrs. Woodhouse threw aside the scarf and ran to hug him. “We weren’t expecting you.”

“How were your meetings?” Grace asked.

Emmett yawned theatrically. “Dull as unvarnished paint.”

“Did you see a lot of old barns on your way, to yield such a metaphor?”

“Nah. Just was saving it up for something good.”

“No more meetings, darling.” Mrs. Woodhouse pressed a hand to his cheek as he walked her back to her chair. He even stooped to pick up the abandoned scarf.

“I’ll get out of your way,” Grace said. “Mrs. Woodhouse, thank you, as always, for the tea. I’ll bring you over a strawberry pie one of these days.”

She said goodnight and walked out. Emmett followed her. Should she care? He always seemed to trace her steps. Likely, it meant nothing.

“Grace, can I talk to you?” He was golden under the porchlights. Knew how to find his lighting, no surprise there.

She felt every word on her skin. Turned, and smiled, with perfect calm. “Of course. Everything OK?”

“It’s—actually about the, uh, meeting. Meetings, that I had. I know you’ve been interested in, uh…” It was very unlike Emmett to stutter. He recovered himself with a flourish of his eyebrows. “I was wondering if you were still considering the bakery addition to Caballero Farms. I know that you mentioned it again recently.”

Grace traced the edge of her sandal over the gravel. They’d stood out here, twice now that sprang to mind—the first time she’d seen him when he got home, and then the night when she’d found out about Marnie—“My mom always dreamed about it, but now she’s concerned that it will be too much.”

“I was wondering if you’d be interested in—well, I’d like to help you get off the ground with it.” He waved a hand. No paint smudges today; but of course not. He’d been doing business. “Not that you need it. I just—I’ve always wanted to…”

Grace laced her fingers together. It was true, the transition had been a little tight, financially. She hadn’t talked about it with—well, with anyone, really. She didn’t want her parents to chalk it up to the marketing switch, to her “risky” name-change. How could Emmett have known? Had he just—intuited it? Guessed that her work was taxing her more than it ever had?

But no, that could not be it. After all, Emmett had last seen her working, really, at nineteen and twenty. She’d known almost nothing then.

In this introspection, she had forgotten that his eyes were on her. When she glanced up again to meet his gaze, his eyes were almost—soft.

He smirked immediately. “So?”

“I’ll let you know,” she said. “I—I really appreciate this, actually. So, I’ll definitely be in touch.”

Emmett rocked back on his heels. He was wearing wingtips. Of course. “OK. United at last.”

“What?”

“Like, Ike and Julia are married. And you and I will be in business together. Symmetry.” His hands demonstrated, pantomiming a shower of sparks. It made no sense at all.

“Symmetry?” Grace quirked an eyebrow. Then she looked closer; he’d gotten some color in his cheeks, or something. But wait, were his ears red too? She reached up. “Did you get sunburn on your ears?”

His fingers closed around her wrist. “Grace. You know how much I hate attention being drawn to my ears.”

A laugh blossomed warmly in Grace’s chest. “Because they’re elf ears?”

He made an indignant sound. “Hey. They’re a little pointed. But even my slightest imperfection is enough to draw your sharpest criticism.”

Something must have changed in her face; he dropped her wrist. The moment was over.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Grace said, a little hurriedly.

“Oh, right. It’s Arthur’s birthday.” Emmett began a grimace and then stopped it in his tracks. “A joyous occasion. I’ll see you then.” He turned and bounded into the house, leaving her a bit confused.

But Emmett, trying for charity where the Bates clan was concerned? She’d take it.

_ii._

It was September, and Jake Fairfax had yet say more than twenty words at any given meeting.

It was not the sort of project which ordinarily would have appealed to Emmett, but, needs must, or whatever those nonsensical chestnuts of wisdom were. The point was, Grace and Jake Fairfax were practically inseparable, which was irritating, and Emmett in the minority felt very much like Emmett in a lapse of reason.

His plan—which was not a _plot_ , thank you very much, as there was neither contrivance nor malice—was to be pleasant to Jake Fairfaix. For once, with no strings attached.

A difficult enough task for anyone, surely.

 _Anyone but Grace_ , a sneaking voice whispered. He chased the voice way with a few harsh strokes of charcoal. Grace in charcoal was subtly softer than any other Grace—Grace in oil paints was positively _lurid_ in its unlikeness—and now he had ruined it in his impatience.

Emmett raked his fingers through his hair. Realized that he had left charcoal there. Shouted downstairs that he was taking a shower before the guests arrived; realized that he was in the large, lonely, familiar house of his own life.

No one could hear him.

He toweled off his hair and set to work. Hair took a lot of work, on canvas and off. And his needed to be flawless.

Flawless it was, when Arthur and Jake arrived. Jake had a bottle of wine. It was surprisingly good. _Lindsey Dixon,_ as a possible donor, popped impishly into Emmett’s head, but he let the thought circle there without weaponizing it.

“Thank you for inviting us,” Jake said. If he smiled, it was merely a mechanical exercise of his lips. Emmett knew a good deal about faking a smile; it was possible to do better. Much better.

Arthur was babbling, of course. It was his birthday, so Emmett forced his patience fifteen seconds longer than he ordinarily would. The house was praised, as though Arthur had not been there a thousand times before. They were thanked for dinner, for their thoughtfulness, and since they had not yet had dinner and Emmett was rarely thoughtful, _that_ grated too.

Grace showing up was a mercy.

As usual.

Dinner was bearable—in parts. The parts, specifically, in which Arthur was eating, not talking. Emmett, under the guise of attentive host, did his best to draw Jake out.

It could not be done. Jake would smile at Grace and answer her questions; he would not smile at Emmett, and though he answered Emmett’s questions, too, every answer revealed very little.

“Has Highbury changed a lot?”

“In parts.”

“Where do you think you’ll tour next?”

“It depends—I have to find a new opportunity.”

 _You must be one hell of an interview_. Emmett racked his brains for something insightful but not provoking, and was distracted by Arthur saying, “It was such a surprise. She’s only been gone what, a month? Two?”

“I do believe it’s nearly two. But an _engagement_?” Mom was shaking her head dolefully.

“Who’s engaged?” Emmett asked, taking a sip of wine.

“Marnie Elton!” Arthur was all too happy to be repeating himself. “You know she took up a job with Augusta Realty? Well, August Hawkins is the son and heir apparent, if you know what I mean. He is sure to take over the business when his father retires. And August Hawkins, so I heard just yesterday, is engaged to Marnie Elton! So sudden, but so sweet, I’m sure. Marnie always seemed like a very nice young woman. Very nice and very eager. Eager to be friendly…”

Emmett could feel Grace looking at him. _Think of Harry; Harry will be very sorry_. He could not think of himself—that would mean too much. He drained his glass and put on his best smile. “Congratulations will be in order, if we ever see her again.” He lifted his eyebrows. “Which is not likely.”

Grace was still looking at him. When he finally met her gaze, she was biting her lip, and her eyes were full of sympathy. Emmett could feel it burning on him. He turned back to Jake.

“You planning on springing an engagement on us, too?” And damn it all, he’d meant not to pry about Lindsey Dixon. But desperate times—no, he would not be desperate. News of Marnie had no power to make him desperate, even by repulsion. It was too late, of course; Jake was answering with as much cardstock in his tone as ever.

“Life on the road is very busy, I'm afraid.”

“Oh, how intriguing,” Mom said. She’d overheard. What she saw in Jake was beyond Emmett, but it must be very much for her to speak approvingly of travel. “Would you play for us?”

Emmett’s wine soured on his tongue. And no, he _wasn’t_ being dramatic. It just probably hadn’t been very good quality after all. Just what this evening needed, Jake Fairfax being brilliant.

Jake shook his head. “I don’t want to monopolize Uncle Arthur’s—”

“Nothing would make me happier!” Arthur exclaimed. He was already clapping. Emmett suppressed a shudder. “You know,” Arthur added, in a stage whisper, “I feel terribly that we don’t have a piano for him at the apartment. I said we might be able to find a keyboard. A keyboard, I was sure, would be better than nothing. It might not be as good as a piano—I am sure it wouldn’t—but still, better than nothing. But Jake would hear of it. Simply wouldn’t hear of the expense.”

They left the table and moved into the living room. The Woodhouses had a piano—the same on which Emmett had once quit lessons. He remembered the last key he’d struck; the F sharp above middle C. It had seemed significant at the time—it seemed foolish now.

Jake sat down at the piano. For the barest hint of a moment, his face changed as he spread his fingers over the keys. He looked, Emmett thought, almost human.

Then too, listening and trying to appreciate it was not _terribly_ difficult, from an objective standpoint. Jake was brilliant. It was captivating. It was beautiful, a tastefully chosen piece. It was art, alright? It was—

Emmett looked at Grace. Grace’s face looked like sunshine had fallen over it, and her eyes were on Jake.

Jake Fairfax was, Emmett decided, the worst man alive.

He decided this for no reason whatsoever. The point was that it was Arthur’s party, not Jake’s, and it was damnably pretentious to try for _calm and reserved_ and yet somehow end up with an entire freaking _audience_. What the hell? First he had to hear of Marnie’s gold-digging ways, brought to fruition, and now he had to suffer through _this_ humiliation?

He made no further efforts throughout the evening, as to winning Jake over. More troubling, still, was that he did not need to—Grace was made more vivacious by the topic of music newly played, and talked energetically about it. When was Grace ever energetic? And why was she trying to draw him into the conversation? Was it pity?

Pity, for Emmett Woodhouse?

The Bates left together—old Mr. Bates had been quiet and sleepy throughout dinner, and Arthur said in many, many words that they should get him home. Grace stood in the front hall, buttoning up her cardigan. It was the color of a pink rose.

“It’s been so nice having Jake back in town,” Grace said. “It reminds me of when we were kids.”

Emmett ran a hand over his hair, ruining it. “Because he hasn’t changed at all?”

Grace frowned. “He’s definitely changed, Emmett. We all have. I just meant that I enjoyed the company of our familiar circle.”

“I don’t know if anyone could call it _company_ —unless we’re talking the corporate kind. He’s so stiff, Grace. Surely you can see that? It’s like, you’ve gotten through one layer of cardboard and there’s another. Corrugated to the _soul_.”

“Wow,” Grace said. “I had kind of thought that you were getting along better. I’m disappointed.”

“I’m disappointed that you’re surprised,” Emmett said. His project for the evening had failed; even that retort came out flatter than he might have hoped.

Grace’s certainly had stung—why couldn’t his do the same?


	16. Chapter XVI

_“Came intending to be acquainted…and acquainted they soon must be.”_

_i._

Grace became aware of three things at once: first, that her head ached; second, that her neck ached even more; and finally, that Rosa Martinez was earnestly calling her name.

There was no readily apparent catastrophe. She had fallen asleep at her desk, her arms stretched out before her and her forehead resting in the crook of her elbow. Likely, she had drooled on the service contracts she’d been reading.

Chagrinned, she ran a hand across her eyes. “Rosa, I’m so sorry. What time is it?”

“It’s after nine.” Rosa was all but wringing her hands.

“In the _morning_?” Grace demanded—stupidly, of course, but one was always stupid in the first moments after waking. “Oh, goodness. I never went to bed last night. I’m so sorry.”

Rosa was disconcerted. “You keep saying that. You shouldn’t be sorry—” The hand-wringing started up again. “There’s a man downstairs and he says he has to see you.”

If it had been Emmett, Rosa would have said so. Grace trailed her fingertips over her sternum. How could every bone ache? “A man?”

Rosa shrugged. “I don’t know. He’s wearing a suit.”

Grace stood up, winced at the pinching sensation in her neck, and moved briskly to the bathroom. What had gotten into her, working after coming home from a late night out? Dinner last night _had_ been perfectly enjoyable, and she had told herself a thousand times that she was occasionally permitted a night off.

Yet here she was, breaking her own rules of balance.

Her stomach lurched with the combination of hunger and nausea resulting from all the wrong sleep cycles. Directing Rosa to tell the mysterious visitor that she’d be down in a moment, she brushed her teeth, washed her face, and changed her blouse.

Whether her visitor had grown more or less patient during his wait was difficult to tell. He couldn’t have been much older than her, but he was clearly trying to look it—a heavy brow, overly styled hair, and a three-piece suit. At nine in the morning. In Highbury, California. Grace stood still and smiled pleasantly.

 _He_ could explain himself first.

“I’m here to buy this place,” he said, before she was even halfway down the stairs—the Caballero’s front hall had a balconied stairway and a cathedral ceiling—and Grace saw that he was grinning as broadly as his offer.

She controlled her reaction. Practice, after all, made perfect—and growing up with Julia as her sister? Julia lived to provoke.

So, come to think of it, did Emmett.

“I beg your pardon?”

They were face-to-face now. “Name, August Hawkins. Aspiration, Jeff Bezos.”

 _August Hawkins_. _Augusta Realty._

 _Marnie_.

Grace had already been standing straight; that was good business, you stood tall and never lost your cool. But she added a little steel to her spine. “Jeff Bezos isn’t known for his strawberry farms.”

“Then the market is open.” He had planted his feet almost absurdly far apart.

Grace lifted her eyebrows. “You seem to know who I am,” she said. She knew who he was, too, but she wasn’t about to grant him the benefit of that knowledge. “However”— _dame para un refresco_ , but no, she wasn’t going to say that either—“I think you have some wires crossed. Caballero Farms isn’t for sale.”

“But if only it was!” August exclaimed. He turned his back on her, quite abruptly, and paced about. “I’ve heard great things— _great things_ —and drove up myself this morning. Have to have it. My brother-in-law”—and here he wheeled back around, as though eager to confide—“grows _oranges_.”

“I’m glad for him,” said Grace, with a return of the polite smile.

August waved a hand. “Damned if I do, damned if I don’t. I _want_ this place, Ms. Caballero. May I call you Gracia?”

“No, thank you.”

“Simply Grace, then. I wasn’t sure if you preferred the ethnic version.”

“My name is just Grace, but I appreciate your…thoughtfulness.” Grace waited for him to complete another prowling circle and then added, “What brings you to Highbury?”

“We do a lot of business here. Augusta Realty?” He snapped his fingers demonstratively. “Heard of it?”

A very little bit of Emmett’s characteristic devilishness snuck into Grace’s head. She pursed her lips. “Maybe? It isn’t ringing a bell.’

That stopped him in his tracks. “How unfortunate. Well. We sold Kim Kardashian’s personal assistant her home.” He paused, then amended. “Well, she later became Kim Kardashian’s personal assistant. Anyway, you’re the talk of the town, Grace.”

“Am I?”

“Best strawberries around.”

“That’s kind of you.”

He narrowed his eyes, which were too light for his skin-tone. He was very tan. Fake-tan, Grace realized. And she wasn’t one to care about people’s appearances, very much, but she supposed it made sense to be a bit extra-observant of random intruders bent on buying the floorboards out from under her. “Do you know the Woodhouse family?”

Grace’s smile tightened. “They’re close family friends.”

He frowned. “Really? From what my fiancée—Marnie Elton, surely you know her, she come from this area—said that the son…Ernest? Emmett? Whatever. She said he was a human disaster. Proud, unreliable, and _very_ reckless with money.”

 _Stand tall, and never lose your cool_. “She must be thinking of someone else.” Grace kept her voice even. “Emmett is not like that at all.”

“You’re asking me to discredit the word of my fiancée?”

“Well.” Grace shrugged. “My word is the word of the person you hope to do business with.” Someday, Marnie Elton would wish she’d never come to Highbury. Someday— _calm down, and don’t be an idiot._

August’s overly tan face contorted with glee. His hair, firmly gelled into place, remained unmoved. “Are you— _agreeing_ to the sale?”

“No,” Grace said, and permitted herself a small, dismissive laugh. “No, Mr. Hawkins. I am not.”

He shook a finger at her, straining the buttons on his vest a little. Bespoke or not, he needed to go up a size. “Highbury hasn’t seen the last of me,” he said. “I’ve got a meeting in Santa Cruz, or I’d stay around and heckle you some more. Rain-check, Grace. Rain-check.”

“My answer will always be the same, I can promise you.” She took his offered hand and shook it in one firm motion. “But speaking of meetings, Mr. Hawkins—next time, please schedule one with me before visiting. I’m sure we’re both extraordinarily busy people.”

He grinned again. “I like you,” he said. “Your word over my Marnie’s? Hell, I’ll take it. I’ll be back.”

_ii._

“Not to be harsh, but can you…well, don’t think it would help if you at least _tried_ to forget her?”

Harry buried his face in hands. The drama of the gesture might have made more of an impression on Emmett had he not already witnessed it a dozen times or more since the unfortunate aftermath of the Marnie fiasco. Then, too, Emmett had repeated the same question quite as many times.

It was all becoming predictable.

“It’s like she still lives here,” Harry said. “Every time I think she’s out of my head… I mean, dude, now she’s _engaged_?”

If Emmett had been a protagonist in a Greek myth—or, quite honestly, a lesser deity, which seemed more fitting—he would have been cursed. He would have screwed something up, and gotten himself cursed.

Hopefully by Zeus or Hades; go big or go home.

“I’m really sorry, man. But…I think that this is a sign to move on.”

Harry blinked desolately. “To _what_?”

And that was exactly the trouble. Harry had spent August and September in an unhappy match of internal ping-pong. Occasionally he’d run into a Martinez, and devise some scheme of texting Rosa again—but then somebody in Highbury would mention Marnie, or any other name that began with ‘M’, and everything started over again.

As for Emmett, he had wasted his resources once. He didn’t want a rekindling between Harry and Rosa—he _had_ been right about that—but he wanted Harry to free himself from the phantom clutches of Marnie, too. And that, he could admit, was a little selfishly motivated.

Emmett could have gone the rest of his life never hearing her name spoken again.

“So what? She’s engaged. She really—” He hated struggling for words. It wasn’t supposed to happen to him. “She’s obviously not who we thought she was.”

“But so _beautiful_. And funny. And smart…”

“OK.” Emmett wanted to punch something. When was the last time he’d really gone to town on a punching bag? Probably some teenage angst, right around the fifteenth of November—nope. He shut that off. Anniversaries were not his area. Not now, not ever. 

The alarm on Harry’s phone pinged. Harry sighed again, explosively, and stood up, setting his mug down. “I should go. I have a shift at the bank.”

Emmett was almost grateful, and then felt ashamed for allowing the very thought of it. He deserved it—every grating moment of Harry’s lovelorn Marnie adoration. He had authored it into being. It was his lot, now, to watch it decay back to dust. He propped his chin on his hand and people-watched, free of Grace’s judgment of his judgment.

And why was he thinking of Grace?

Right. Last time he’d been here, she had too.

Of course, the last time he’d _seen_ Grace—

He shuddered the idea of Jake Fairfax away and pulled out his phone to text Noel. _You free for dinner?_

_Actually yes. Have a surprise for you._

_Excellent_. Again, he was reminded how devastating Noel’s marriage had been on his social life. That was how the Marnie trouble had started in the first place. Before he got married, Noel had been always available—hell, he’d even gone to grad school at the same place Emmett went to college—

Emmett hated change.

Then he thought of Jake Fairfax and Grace again, and their inexplicable and odious and long-lasting friendship, and decided that he hated when things stayed the same, too, dredged up out of the past.

In this (admittedly) fickle mood, he ventured out into the autumn sunshine again. It was not the autumn of the East Coast—September in California meant crackling air and the scent of smoke, unless it was a lucky year. Emmett turned his back to the west and looked out. Of course, in the middle of Highbury, “looking out” meant he could see a patch of blue sky between the post office and the convenience store.

The next moment, he was almost bowled over.

“I’m so sorry!”

A first glance convinced Emmett, at least, that there was no need for apology. The newcomer had an armful of shopping bags. The sun was on her hair and Emmett couldn’t tell which was more golden. Not that that was relevant to anything of course, except that he was an artist. He noticed that sort of thing.

“I ran into you because you were staring into middle distance and I was staring nowhere by the ground,” she said, sounding rueful. She stooped to pick up a bag of rolls, but he snagged it first and handed it to her. “Thanks. Last time my sister sends me shopping, I’ll bet.”

“That’s how I’d play it too,” Emmett agreed. He was fairly certain that his hair looked good. Again, just for the aesthetics. None of this was particularly relevant. “At least, failing miserably at my assigned tasks always worked well on my older brother.”

“Failing miserably? I’m allowed to deprecate myself. Didn’t say _you_ were.” But her eyes were snapping with amusement. They were very blue. “We should introduce ourselves first.”

 “Of course.” Emmett held up his hands in an apologetic gesture. “I’m Emmett. Emmett Woodhouse.”

She smiled. An interesting smile; a little crooked. Tilted at the corner like she was made for laughing. Emmett smiled back—his most charming one, that he only reserved for his worst enemies and people who fascinated him.  “Oh,” she said. “I’m so _glad_ that that’s who you are.”

He shook his head. “Why?”

“Because I’ve heard all about you and I needed you to live up to the legend.” She set down her shopping bags—rolls be damned, apparently, and held out her hand. “I’m Francesca Church.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "dame para un refresco" is Mexican slang (to my knowledge) that means "give me enough for a soda/at least buy me a soda" which is used when someone has a small debt to you and you're hinting you'd like to be paid back. I used it here as if Grace wanted to say it mockingly at August's presumptuous offer, with no indication of why she should consider selling.


	17. Chapter XVII

_“It was but an effusion of lively spirits.”_

_i._

The bread had not risen well.

Grace huffed a sigh of frustration, and ran a hand through her hair, belatedly realizing that she was streaking it with flour.

 _This_ was why she needed a professional bakery for a partner; she could not manage it alone, or even oversee it.

This particular failed loaf—and there were very many that had _not_ failed, but it was sometimes hard to remember them—had been for her latest dinner with the Martinez family. She could not bring this bread; their _abuela_ would cluck her tongue in inexorable judgment. Grace believed herself to be her own mistress, but Rosa’s _abuela_ was, simply put, a force.

What to do? If it were Julia or Mom—well, Mom would never have made the mistake in the first place, and Julia would just bring wine. But Grace had brought wine before, and she was tired of feeling pretentious.

She would bring strawberries, then. (As though Rosa and all of them were not sick of strawberries.)

Paco’s sympathetic eyes were no help with her current plight. She frowned at him. “No perfect solution, Taco-Paco.”

It was just one of those days where the house felt empty.

Grace was not sentimental, only occasionally lonely. Practically speaking, sometimes it would be hard not to look around and think, quite plainly, _there_ , that was her father’s favorite chair, and _there_ had been Julia’s reading nook before she left for college, and here, there, and everywhere was where Mama had been.

_Before._

She dusted off her hands and went downstairs. Remembered the flour streak playing Bride-of-Frankenstein in her hair, and went back upstairs.

“I know,” she told Paco. “I’m not making any sense.”

In half an hour, there was a bushel of strawberries packed and ready to go, and she was wearing fresh jeans. She was just texting Rosa from the driveway, jingling her keys in one hand, when the sound of a car startled her.

“So, where do I buy the strawberries?”

Grace slid her phone into her pocket, and took the stranger in. She saw blue eyes in the kind of fine-boned face that had probably never had a moment’s struggle with baby-fat. Or acne, come to think of it.

“We’re not open at the moment,” Grace said, “But I’m happy to tell you our hours.”

The girl—she must have been around Grace’s age, and try as she might, Grace still referred to people of her own age as _girls_ —shook her head quickly, with a sweet, crooked grin. “I’m so sorry. I just—I’m Francesca Church, and you must be Grace Caballero.”

It was necessary to acknowledge one’s own lack of charity. Admittedly, Grace’s first reaction _was_ one of slight judgment. She had her own issues with Francesca’s legendary specter, and most of them had to do with the fact that Francesca wasn’t the kind to stay.

And oh, Grace knew something of _staying_.

Charity, though. Charity required a firm handshake and a smile. “Pleased to meet you,” Grace said.

“You must think I’m very weird, showing up here. But I’m the adventurous type.” And she _was_. That could be seen with a glance. Some people were sincere and some people were very good at portraying who they were or wanted to be. Marnie, Grace remembered, had failed at that.

Francesca was not Marnie. And now she was explaining herself.  “Ashley sent me on a sort of scavenger hunt—well, I’ve been sending myself, looking around at all the places she’s told me about. You guys have a lovely town here. It feels so good to be home. And of course I’ve already met King Emmett.” She smiled fondly, and Grace didn’t know if it was fair for someone to be so fond, so soon, but who was she to argue? “Love him. He’s hilarious.”

Grace could not imagine saying _love_ like that, so casually and easily that it might have meant nothing or everything.

“Emmett’s great,” she said, because it seemed wrong to dim the warmth of Francesca’s smile. “He and your brother-in-law—Noel—lived out east for a while Emmett was going to college. But not in your area, I guess?”

“No, I never met them. But I heard about them. Ashley was always out, you know. Thought it was to see _me_ , but actually, it she had an ulterior motive.” Her eyes twinkled. “I’m totally kidding. Ashley is the most selfless person on the planet.”

“She’s wonderful.” For some reason Grace felt like she’d already said the word wonderful in the conversation, like she was just repeating herself. Grace Caballero, little brown strawberry girl. Plain and flat-footed and not adventurous at all.

 _Put away thoughts like that_. Grace stood straighter.

“I really won’t stay. I can tell you’re about to go out. But Ashley has said so much about you and I would love to get to know you better. For, like, context—I’m here for three weeks. Crazy, right? I’m in between jobs, because I’m a Millennial, but I _promise_ I have something lined up.”

“I’m sure you do.”

“Nothing like you. You run this place? That’s fantastic.” She sounded wistful.

 _But that’s a Rolex on your wrist_. And again, why this sudden push-pull of judgment? Even Emmett had all but pointed it out.

But then—Emmett—

“I do have to go to dinner at the moment,” Grace said. She didn’t have a crooked grin, but she smiled with all the warmth she could muster. “But please tell Ashley that you’re welcome here as soon as is convenient.”

“And we’ll have you there, too! I may have persuaded Ashley to throw a party.” Francesca grinned again, and _her_ mouth was a very charming one, even if asking her half-sister for parties after years of no returns _was_ a bold move.

Grace watched her get into Noel’s car and drive way. Grace herself spent the drive to the Martinezes without even the radio to distract her.

When Emmett had come home—months ago—there had been a tectonic shift. Marnie and her machinations had brought another, and now—now this.

Francesca Church, in the flesh. Golden hair. Pale, flawless skin—no tan. Not yet, and maybe not ever—it didn’t seem that three weeks _could_ make every kind of mark. But Grace couldn’t help but see her, in the silly flash of a terribly vivid moment, shoulder to shoulder with Emmett.

They’d make a perfect movie-star couple.

 _Only_ , Grace reminded herself, _Emmett has never been in love._

 _Emmett has never been in love_.

The thought did not comfort her. She shook her head at herself. It _shouldn’t_ have, anyway.

_ii._

There was something to be said for being satisfied.

Emmett had been hearing of the wonders of Francesca Church for years, increasingly as Noel and Ashley moved into each other’s orbits. Certainly, Noel had been (and might still be) a bit more skeptical; he had been bothered on Ashley’s behalf that Francesca did not reciprocate appropriate sisterly efforts. Despite countering Grace’s every argument on the subject, Emmett _did_ think that putting off a visit more than five times was…weird, at the least.

But Noel was patient, and Ashley had taken no offense, and Francesca’s charms had been detailed at length, which kept people interested and raised expectations.

Emmett was an artist.

Even after—everything—he counted himself as having a discerning eye.

In other words: the expectations had been met.

Before a week was out, after that fateful encounter on the sidewalk, Francesca and Noel and Ashley had been to dinner twice at Hartfield. Mom didn’t mind; of _course_ Mom didn’t mind. She had always been very fond of Noel, and had been very grieved by his marriage. She was always more than usually pleased when he came back to Hartfield again, even though Emmett had to make a particular point of skirting around comments about, “the good old days” when Noel was twenty-two and a single man.

The second dinner was even better than the first. Ashley was as giddy as she’d always been, turned up by a factor of ten. Noel, however, seemed to have gotten over any awkwardness he’d been feeling about the long-awaited visit _finally_ happening, and was beaming. Emmett liked to see that. Noel, he could say, without reservation, deserved better than Emmett did. It was a good thing when he actually had his deserved happiness handed to him.

It was enjoyable, too, to be surrounded by people who didn’t delve into the restless ghosts of a misspent summer. There was no talk of Marnie or blind items or fireworks and thunderstorms. Francesca drew the center of attention, of course, but not in a way that made Emmett feel cheated. How different she was from Jake Fairfax!

The key difference, of course, was probably halfway between the blue of her eyes and the gold of her hair, but Emmett made a rule of never answering internal questions that he didn’t feel like answering.  

“To be _home_ again, though. That’s really something,” Francesca was saying. She turned to Ashley, and her whole face was alight. “I still have that picture of us at the beach. I bring with me everywhere. I was…three, I think?”

“Yes,” Ashley said, with an answering smile. Ashley really did seem deliriously happy, with Noel on one side and her sister on the other. “You were three, and you were not afraid at all! When I was little you couldn’t get me to dip my toes in, even. I was so terrified. But you used to run out and I’d have to catch you by the little frilly skirt of your swimsuit. Couldn’t have you getting dragged under by the undertow.”

“Jake Fairfax, and now Francesca,” Noel observed, amid the laughter that followed. “I, for one, am very happy that there are so many homecomings.”

“Jake Fairfax?” Francesca asked, with a casually tilted brow.

“Oh,” Emmett said, remembering not to be juvenile at the absolute _last_ moment (which was the only time he ever remembered that, if at all). “You know Jake?”

“I think I met him once in passing? Name sounds familiar.” She grimaced. To an artist, she had a tantalizing mouth. It looked good doing anything. “He was a musician, right? I try to patronize the arts.”

“We should go see Arthur, and Jake, while you’re here!” Noel said, and Ashley agreed. “I’ll ask them to dinner!”

Francesca lifted a sculpted shoulder. “No need on my account. I’m sure we’ll cross paths.”

Again, Emmett was tempted to suggest that she might not wish to. Mercifully (he thought), he let the conversation turn, and had real entertainment in hearing Francesca tease Noel a bit. She followed it by genuine compliments for Ashley’s choice of husband.

Her compliments didn’t sound at all like Marnie’s. That was a mark in her favor.

To be fair to Grace—and that smacked of some satisfaction in itself, because Grace was always going around being fair to people and Emmett didn’t like her cornering the market—Emmett _was_ watching Francesca carefully.

Not everyone dealt with family stuff the same way. _He_ had boxed half of it away into the realm of the unspeakable, then vowed up and down to stay with Mom, only to leave, cold turkey, for four years of college. And because it was family stuff, who was to say if he was right or wrong or anything, about any part of it?

It would have been one thing, if he decided, watching the light from the chandelier pour off Francesca’s sleek, shimmering hair, if she’d been dismissive of Ashley. But she hung on Ashley’s every word. And it wasn’t that Emmett didn’t like Ashley—he _did_ —but anyone with a _discerning eye_ could have told you that Francesca was ten times wittier and more interesting. But she didn’t monopolize the conversation. She seemed enraptured by Ashley’s honeymoon stories and plans for kitchen remodeling, only interjecting her wit to praise.

Emmett wanted—

Holy _shit_.

Did he want _her?_

To be fair to _himself_ (he worked on that more often than being fair to Grace, but who wouldn’t?), he’d totally had his chances in college. He’d taken some of them too. But it was always a rollercoaster inhale, the first moment of possibility. And Emmett would never tell anyone, but he was afraid of heights.


	18. Chapter XVIII

_“There was one person…not so leniently disposed.”_

_i._

August Hawkins had not reappeared. Still, Grace found herself on the lookout for him. And not only for him; for Marnie, too. For anyone and everyone who seemed bent on tearing up the fibers of Highbury.

It was only natural that _she_ have more interest in protecting serenity in Highbury than anyone else. After all, she was trapped here for life.

 _Not trapped. It isn’t about being trapped_.

She slipped in an earring. She had a meeting in Sacramento later in the morning, but the roundtrip was a grueling one—about three hours each way. A year ago, it would have been her _father_ who had a meeting in Sacramento, but all that had changed. When it came to his role as shareholder in various investing corporations, he had made Grace his proxy.

She could see him in her mind’s eye, brow creased, sweeping an arm across the edge of everything. _This is all yours_.

 _Not trapped_. _Belonging._

_Longing._

Maybe, Grace decided, she _was_ being a little obsessive. Worrying over August and Marnie and people of that ilk wouldn’t do any good. The truth was simply that, since the arrival of Francesca Church, the social life of the town had moved on without her. It was just as she wished it—she was busy—but that didn’t mean that silence filled itself.

The meeting and its aftermath were worse than the drive down. Grace was intercepted by a few of her father’s old friends on the way out. What had passed for jibes with him felt uncomfortably close to condescension here.

“I never did know what he saw in strawberries—there’s no farm-worker in _my_ blood—but I can admit that I was wrong. At least, I _was_. Maybe we’re not such a couple of crazy _gringos_ after all, huh? How has it been?”

“We’ve had a solid year,” Grace answered, keeping her voice calm. This man’s name was something like Todd. She’d forgotten, even though it was her duty to remember.

“The rebranding was your idea, wasn’t it?” A sympathetic glance.

Grace restrained herself. “Yes, I thought we should return to our roots.”

“Do you think that’s been responsible for your down-turn in profits?” Todd Owen. That was his name.

“I don’t, actually. I’ve received positive customer feedback about it.” Grace could feel her pulse racing a little faster, thrumming in her ears. “It was nice to see you, Mr. Owen.”

She wanted to go home. She wanted to go back to college. Only, college had been in California for her. Commuting.

Maybe an apartment. Small, clean. A daybed and a window seat and something that didn’t seem too endlessly _spacious_. She wanted—

But Grace never got what she wanted, so what was the goddamn point?

 _Deep breaths. This isn’t the time to throw a tantrum_.

Instead of going home, she stopped by the Bates’ on her way back through Highbury. It was a direct attack against her inner turmoil—a refusal to give in to the (silly, in hindsight) belief that the world was moving on without her.

“Grace!” Jake seemed genuinely pleased to see her. He had a pretty great smile, for those who got to really see it. Grace thought herself privileged to be one of those few.

“I had a meeting for work, and I thought it would be nice to see some _friendly_ faces after the all the bureaucracy and racially charged small-talk.”

“That bad, huh?” The Bates’ living room was crammed close to their kitchen—there was a counter as divider, but it wasn’t much—and Jake rummaged around in the refrigerator for iced tea. There was no sign of Arthur or his father. Grace let herself admit, internally, that she wasn’t exactly sorry to only see Jake.

"That bad."

“Uncle Arthur and Grandpa are at a doctor’s appointment. Did you have a visit planned?”

Grace sipped. Herbal, a touch of honey. Just as she liked it. “No, honestly I just barged in because…” Jake just blinked, listening. He didn’t feel the need to one-up everything everyone said; he just let the silence stay where it was. “Sometimes I struggle with filling my dad’s shoes.”

A second after she said it, she hoped she hadn’t spoken out of turn. After all, Jake’s dad hadn’t even much bothered leaving shoes _to_ fill.

Jake didn’t seem too bothered. He said, “Maybe that’s not what you’re supposed to be doing.”

Grace tapped a thumbnail against the curve of her glass. “Maybe.”

Downstairs, the doorbell rang. Jake stiffened a little. It made Grace feel a pang of something akin to distance. _H_ _ad_ she misread him? Did he dislike visitors so much, in this town that was too long ago in his history to be home?

She hadn’t time to ponder. The visitors were, of all people, Emmett Woodhouse and Francesca Church.

Strange, that Grace should think of them like that: two entities, two names each. But Emmett was always accruing more presence than he ought, and something had changed in the air around him with Francesca here. They were a duo, and Grace hated it.

“I came to give Arthur a bottle of wine,” Emmett was saying breezily to Jake. As though they didn’t despise each other. Grace waited, very still, as their footsteps creaked up the stairs. “I should have called.”

“It’s fine.” Jake, Grace had to admit, wasn’t very good at sounding fine. She stood up when they came in. Emmett’s face clouded when he saw her—and it was not like Emmett to look stormy, not at all, much less on account of her appearance. It passed, and he smiled with precise yet easy brightness. “Grace! I didn’t know you still made social calls!”

She was suddenly conscious of her heels and pencil skirt because Emmett was looking at her. Did he notice her makeup? Did it matter? Why the hell did it always _matter_?

“I had a meeting in Sacramento today,” she returned calmly, nodding her greeting to Francesca. “I decided to stop in on my way home.”

Emmett’s face didn’t seem to like that very much either. She had not time to puzzle him out today. Why should he care at all? What was going on?

Francesca drew her attention anyway. She wasn’t leaning on anything, but she looked as though she was. As though the whole world leaned for her, some sort of yearning gravitational tilt in her direction. Most people just stood around; Francesca _beckoned_.

“So you’re Jake Fairfax!” she exclaimed. “I knew who the Bates were, of course. But I have to admit, Highbury gets better every time I meet someone who’s, I don’t know, relatively close to my age?” She shook Jake’s hand by practically seizing it.

Jake was literally gritting his teeth. He said nothing, not even the requisite _nice to meet you_ , and his eyes were burning—and all of a sudden it occurred to Grace that Jake Fairfax wasn’t OK. Not just like, reserved and stoic—actively suffering. All the pieces made sense, when strung together. The screwed-up family situation and the tensions of poverty and the pressures of his career—it wasn’t ending well for him, which was maybe why he’d ended one particular path.

 _Why didn’t you put it together_? _He came here to escape._

_Maybe because this is the last place I would think anyone would come to—_

Her eyes flicked to Emmett, who _was_ leaning now, almost insolently, but with one hand shaking ever-so-slightly and his eyes a little too hard.

 _One disaster at a time_.

Francesca had helped herself to some tea. It wasn’t exactly a faux pas, but Grace was irritated all the same. She was exchanging some sort of eyelash-Morse-code with Emmett, and Emmett, restless as always, gestured at the bottle of wine again. “We’ll be going,” he said. “But let Arthur know it’s a birthday gift.”

Jake nodded, once. Francesca’s eyes swept over the whole room—the dingy kitchen and the faded living room chairs, the awkward keyboard propped on crooked plastic legs. Grace looked for pity in her eyes, but found something more distasteful: flat curiosity.

“It was so nice to meet you, Jake,” Francesca said, in as beguiling a tone as she said everything.

Their footsteps echoed down into the lower hall; their voices floated out into the street. Grace thought of staying, but realized it would only do her any good. Jake was a little ashen, and he swiped a hand over his forehead.

She had thought herself his friend, and she _was_ —only not good enough of a friend to read this room and find the other side of meaning. “Thanks so much for entertaining me,” she murmured. “Please tell your uncle and grandfather I said hello.”

He tried for a smile. She recognized the effort because it was quite the same as the one she’d pasted on her face a dozen times today. Her heels were pinching her feet and the world felt uneven.

“See you around,” he said.

She figured it meant that she should keep her distance.

_ii._

“I guess I don’t know this town.”

“It’s not that,” Emmett assured her. He took the corner up to Hartfield a little fast; he always did. Francesca didn’t mind. It was always Grace who had criticized his driving, though, to be fair, the last time Grace had driven with him he’d probably been seventeen.

(Grace had taught him how to drive.)

“I like the people here,” Francesca said, a little more contentedly. She had one hand dangling against the center console; it was almost brushing his leg. “I know I’m only staying here another week—has it gone by so quickly? But I hope they’ll like me.”

Emmett swallowed down something that he wouldn’t, couldn’t allow to be a lump in his throat. “Do you plan on coming back?”

She blinked at him slowly, lashes fanning up and down. “There’s a lot of reasons to.”

He carried the warmth of that long, slow glance like a drop of honey on the tongue—so sweet as to be a little heavy, when time had changed its flavor. In the short time she’d been here—and really, had it been short or forever?—there had been all kind of laughs exchanged and bartered. They were Emmett’s best currency, after all.

The next day was two things at once: Ashley’s birthday, and Francesca’s sudden disappearance.

“It’s no matter,” Ashley said, with her usual brightness, when Emmett stopped by. “She had a hankering to go shopping in San Fran.”

Noel said nothing.

Emmett shifted from one foot to the other. He had come here invited by Noel, under the pretense of wishing Ashley well, and really, to see Francesca. All plans were now cast in awkward uncertainty. “Birthday presents for you?”

Ashley’s hands fluttered like birds. “Oh, that would so sweet! I’m sure that’s what it is—I mean, I don’t want to assume. She’s not here for very long, and I just want her to be happy! I thought we’d go there together this weekend, but maybe—maybe she’ll still want to.”

Noel put his arm around her and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “I’m sure she will.” But Emmett had known Noel long enough—had been the cause, direct or indirect, of trouble often enough—to see the creases of displeasure carving their way into Noel’s forehead.

“Why don’t you both come to dinner tonight?” he asked. “Unless—” And there it was, that sneaking hairline fracture of knowledge—a very simple knowledge, really. Someday, everyone was going to leave—“Well, just come. Mom will love to see you, and it’s not too late to order up something fairly fantastic from our…oh, what’s the Victorian turn-of-phrase. Our _larder_.” He screwed one of his best grins into place effortlessly and waited.

Noel looked questioningly at Ashley. Ashley didn’t take long to side; she loved to be doing, and, Emmett guessed, hated to dwell on anything that could be disappointing.

Mom feigned a headache at first, but was quickly coaxed round to the idea of company. Then she was gradually full of questions: where was Francesca? Driving to San Francisco, alone? She would surely get lost. That city was full of hills, anyway: it would make anyone sick to be wandering through it for the whole day. What was that girl thinking? She was very pretty and sweet, but not as clever as she’d seemed, to do a thing like that.

“Mom! She’s fine. She’s a grown-up. My age.” He pressed a kiss to her cheek.

“Oh, no, Emmett darling. You’re never grown up.”

Grace chose that moment, of course to arrive.

“You’re having guests?” she said, seeing that the table was set for more than two. “I’ll leave, Mrs. W.—I just stopped by for our evening tea.”

“Stay,” Emmett said. “Stay, Grace.”

Her eyebrows flitted halfway up and stayed there. “Alright.”

“It’s Noel and Ashley. Ashley’s birthday.”

“Right—I would have thought she had plans with her sister?”

“Francesca has gone away to San Francisco.” Mom sighed. “Young people are always jet-setting.”

Just as Emmett had feared, Grace’s mouth set in a firm line, and her eyebrows went down again. “Oh. Well. It’s very kind of you to do something for Ashley.”

She was turning her back. He hated that; the finality of her movements and her principles, combining into one.

“Don’t be judgy,” he said, coming up beside her. In profile, he was reminded of this one time when they had climbed out onto the roof of her house. Fourth of July. He was nine. The parents were downstairs being boring, but he hadn’t wanted to miss the fireworks—

To him, Grace in profile would always be backlit by white moonlight.

Now she turned back again, squaring off, shaking her head ever-so-slightly. “I’m not being judgmental, Emmett. I’m just not going to pretend to be impressed when I’m not.”

“Is this about there being a new queen in town?” He waggled his brows at her. “Can’t handle competition for the throne?”

“Don’t be silly.” Which was the trouble, really; Emmett was always silly. Why didn’t she know that yet? “I feel sorry for Ashley. It’s hard to have a thoughtless sibling.”

He winked. “This is about Julia.”

She flexed her fingers in and out of fists, but her voice was level. “It’s not about anything else than wishing that maturity was—”

He gave a little sigh, and realized that he should let the conversation end. “A more common theme in your acquaintance?” Before she could answer, he had heard the sound of Noel at the door, and hurried to answer it.


	19. Chapter XIX

_“I do not know whether it ought to be so, but certainly silly things do cease to be silly if they are done by sensible people in an impudent way. Wickedness is always wickedness, but folly is not always folly.—It depends upon the character of those who handle it.”_

_i._

Britt Cole’s invitation arrived the day after Ashley’s birthday dinner. Grace turned it over in her hand, and when she set it down on the kitchen counter, sparkles winked from her fingertips. Britt had always been fond of glitter. She had eloped to Las Vegas, for heaven’s sake. Now, returning triumphantly to Highbury—to her parents’ home at least, since she and her new husband would be living in Spokane, Washington—she wanted an equally shimmering party.

Grace did not begrudge her the party.

Julia, calling ten minutes later, _did_. “How like Britt Cole to send out invitations for a huge party, on a Thursday night, a _week_ in advance. Who does she expect to come?”

“I can go.” Grace shrugged as though Julia were there to see her. “It’s not a big deal.”

“She always was so oblivious. But her parents are pretty well-off. It’ll be reasonably good,” Julia mused. “I’m surprised you even picked up the phone.”

“I take breaks, occasionally. Just had a meeting with another contractor. I may have found a bakery, finally.”

Julia groaned. “Ugh. Don’t talk me about all that. Contractors.” She shuddered.

Grace was about to say, _you asked_ , but then she remembered that Julia really hadn’t. “I won’t bore you with the details. I can reply for both of us, if you want.”

“No way. I can answer my own invitation. Dammit, it’s getting glitter, like, _everywhere_. Clashing with my minimalist aesthetic.”

Julia had never been a minimalist. “Alright, then.” Grace smiled, knowing that Julia could not see and be offended. “I’m sure you’ll be missed.”

“Probably. I dated her older brother for a minute in high school and he’s never gotten over me.”

Grace thought of relating all this to Emmett, humorously, later in the day, but found her task slightly complicated by the fact that Emmett hadn’t yet received an invitation.

“I’m sure the mail just…got delayed, or they sent them out in batches,” Grace said, but she was never very good at the polite lie. More probable to her mind was that Emmett’s frequent and studied snobbery towards the Coles—he considered them uncouth, or whatever slightly more modern word best described the natural result of his own intellectual boredom and impish self-righteousness—had finally come home to roost.

She expected Emmett to have a strenuous litany of excuses. Harry had come and gone, mentioning his invitation, and Emmett’s knee was shaking like a metronome but he wouldn’t say anything.

“Too many people getting married,” was Mrs. Woodhouse’s sole comment, and then she went back to questioning whether doctors these days really knew _anything_ about arthritis.

Ordinarily, Emmett would have diverted her. Ordinarily, Grace would have let herself question again why still, businesswoman that she was, independent force that she had to be, she always ended up across the Woodhouse table, watching Emmett careen through his passionate orbit.

It must be a great deal of work, being Icarus and the sun all at once.

Grace changed the subject. “I think I’ve narrowed down the bakery to a couple different potential vendors.”

His knee stopped shaking. “Really? What are you thinking?”

“There’s this place that has kind of a fusion feel. Pastry fusion, right? Not something you hear every day. But they do a lot of traditional Mexican baking along with the American classics.”

He cocked his head. “That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

Mrs. Woodhouse had grown bored and wandered off, her shawl trailing behind her. Grace felt somehow safer in speaking of her goals with only the green of Emmett’s eyes to keep track of.

“What I want is to feel like I’m running a good business that takes care of people,” Grace said. “I know, that’s hopelessly idealized.”

Emmett smiled. “I don’t think you’re ever hopeless or overly idealized. It’s not in your nature. You’re practical and competent and…” he trailed off. Grace found herself wishing for a more glamorous compliment, but then, was it really her place to wish for compliments?

“Thanks.” She smoothed her skirt over her knees. “I’ll let you know…I mean, if you’re still interested.”

“In investing?” He sounded eager. “Absolutely. Send me the specs, or whatever. Better yet, send me samples.” His phone pinged, following that, and reading it, he frowned.

“Is something wrong?” The words were out of Grace’s mouth before she realized it might be prying.

Emmett seemed to ruminate for a long moment before saying anything. “No, no. Francesca just had a question.”

Francesca. Grace felt that coil of coldness settle between her ribs and hated that it had become a familiar, definable feeling.

Emmett’s invitation arrived the next day. Complete with an apology—Britt’s parents hadn’t been sure how to accommodate Mrs. Woodhouse, thus the delay.

“That ought to be easy,” Grace said. They were in her kitchen. Emmett had sauntered over, pleased as punch, to share the news of the invitation—and Grace had said nothing deprecating like, _I thought you said you’d never visit the Coles again as long as you live_. “Won’t she just not want to go?”

“Exactly.” Emmett was sitting on her counter, swinging his legs. Now that she thought of it, whenever he came to the Farms, he always ended up in the kitchen. She wasn’t sure why. It was as though he didn’t dare venture much through the other rooms, though he’d known those same rooms since childhood.

But no, it couldn’t be _that_. Surely Emmett would _dare_ to do anything.

He went on. “I think I’m going to ask Lucas Goddard to come for dinner and keep her company. She was really worried about me being out late.” He smiled fondly. Grace was once again struck by the curious disparity of Mrs. Woodhouse’s complacency when Emmett had seemed irretrievably gone, at school, and her clinginess when he was actually in proximity.

It wasn’t her place to judge. Grace turned back to putting away her dishes. If they were going to be in the kitchen, she might as well get something done.

“What are you going to wear?” He was bouncing one heel against the lower cabinet. She should scold him, but she didn’t.

 _What is Francesca going to wear_? Grace bit her lip. “I don’t know.”

“How are you going to do your hair?”

She set down a plate with more force than was necessary. “Emmett! I don’t know yet!”

He waved a hand. “OK, OK, just making conversation. Girls _like_ talking about this stuff.” His eyebrows danced accusingly.

“I have a lot of responsibilities.”

“Don’t I know it. Hey, come here.”

“Emmett, I have not been taking orders from you since—oh, ever?” She propped a hand on one hip. What was with him today? And why was this an achingly warm sort of scene—him ensconced in the center of her domestic life?

_Dangerous ground…_

“Please?”

“What do you want?” But she took a step closer. He had asked about what she was going to wear. Maybe he _had_ noticed how she looked the other day, if that mattered. Grace was human; it was nice to be appreciated.

“I want to try something with your hair,” he said. All serious artist-face, or something. Grace’s heart pounded in her chest.

“My hair?”

“Yeah. Your hair is really cool. It’s thick and long and—anyway. Francesca was teaching me how to French-braid hers the other day. I want to try it in yours.”

 _Francesca. Of course_. But all the same—“You have five minutes,” Grace said, very calmly, as though she wasn’t being _very_ silly indeed.

Emmett slipped off the counter eagerly. “Here, sit down.”

Grace did. She folded her hands in her lap. Then she flattened them against her knees. There were three plates left on the counter—

Emmett’s fingers grazed the nape of her neck. “Holy sh—dude, you have a lot of hairpins.”

“I have a lot of Mexican hair.” Grace spoke through her teeth; it seemed the only way.

“I’m not criticizing,” he said softly. He had dexterous fingers. The hairpins seemed to give him no trouble; he was raking through her hair, separating tendrils, ghosting against the tip of her ear or the back of her neck with a touch here and there.

She felt it all—every light tug and twist, the graze of his nails against her skin. She could have stayed there forever, quite possibly, but in Grace’s experience, mere possibility was too far from reality to ever be rightly judged.

“Finished,” Emmett announced. He sounded dissatisfied. “I did a bad job of it.”

“That’s alright,” Grace said, shaking herself from her reverie. “I mean—”

He spun her chair around and crouched down in front of her, and then, quite suddenly, his arms were linked behind her neck and he was pulling her hair free from the braid again. “This would look good,” he mused, twisting her hair around his hands and holding it up. “Something sort of vintage-y. Very Downton Abbey. But obviously, _Donuealla_ Abbey or something.”

Grace shook her head tensely. “That isn’t a real name.”

The moment passed; he let go of her hair abruptly and let it tumble to her shoulders, stood up and surveyed her, tilting his head to one side. “Not as easy as I thought,” he said.

“It’s complicated,” Grace answered. Desperately, she wondered if she was speaking to artist or to man.

Artist would be infinitely safer.

_ii._

“Where have you been _all day_?” Francesca demanded, pressing a warm, cherry-scented kiss to his cheek. “Ashley and Noel are all but ready to kick me out. I get so restless.”

He doubted that Ashley and Noel would be so blunt, but took it as an opportunity to ask: “Is that why you jetted off to L.A. the other day?”

Francesca favored him with a sidelong glance. “That was complete batshit, wasn’t it? But I’d do it again in a heartbeat. It was so fun, and freeing, to do something like that without telling anyone.”

She wasn’t as foolish and reprehensible as Grace made her out to be; she couldn’t be. Boorish, selfish people refused to acknowledge when they’d done something flighty or irresponsible. Francesca had made an allowance for herself, and acknowledged that it was, in her own words, _batshit_.

 _See?_ Emmett demanded mentally, of Grace’s image. _You were wrong_.

Of course, Harry liked Francesca a good deal too, though Harry’s opinion didn’t count for anything that wasn’t confined to a strict, simple parameter. He had immediately decided that Emmett and Francesca were meant to be.

“You two look so perfect together,” he said, the day of Britt’s party. “And if you’re not going to…”

“Not going to what?” Emmett demanded. He was mentally going through his tie collection, and trying to decide if he wanted to wear a tie, anyway, to a fete in celebration of _Vegas_.

“Going to get together with someone around here.”

Emmett scoffed. “Not likely.” No tie, but a pocket square, in one of his crisp white shirts. That would be sharp. “You almost ready to go?”

“Yeah,” Harry said. “I wonder if Marnie will be there.” And he sighed, as he always did, implosively.

To Emmett, implosion was without point. “Probably not, dude. I haven’t seen her around.”

And, mercifully, he himself was too distracted to look for her. The party was annoyingly glitzy, just as Britt had intended. Britt herself was wearing earrings shaped like miniature disco balls. Francesca, slinky in a silver, backless sheath, smiled at Emmett when Britt had floated away.

“I almost bought those myself.”

Emmett settled his hands at her hips. Music was starting for dancing, and strangely enough, it was a slow dance. So much for Vegas, yet he couldn’t really mind. “No, you didn’t.”

He spent the evening in her arms as much as possible. Dancing, propped up at the buffet with her braceleted wrist slung over his shoulders. Emmett did not think that this was love, whatever Harry said. But it was certainly an artist’s appreciation of beauty becoming pleasingly human; one could simultaneously wish to paint and kiss the slope of Francesca’s long neck, or her graceful, careless hands.

And considering how closely she moved when they danced, she felt something for him too.

He smiled a few inches from her lips. “Lipstick like that would leave a mark.”

Her eyebrows lifted in seeming innocence. “Good heavens, Mr. Woodhouse. On what?”

He suggested blandly, "A cocktail napkin. Paper only, please—think of the laundry.”

She laughed. And then she pressed her lips against his cheek—not as his mouth, as she might have easily, perilously done—and said, “You taste like just the right amount of cologne.”

Emmett knew, objectively, that it was a ridiculous party. Harry was in his element, charmed by shine over substance. Britt was reliving her prom queen hopes (she hadn’t actually been prom queen). Mr. and Mrs. Cole were holding court, such as it was. But Emmett was not sorry to have come. This—this _power_ , of having the most beautiful girl in the room wrapped around him, was flat-out enjoyable.

His eyes met Grace’s across the room.

There was the faintest tear in the fabric of the universe; some people would have called it a pause.

But Grace, still and a little paler than usual—maybe that was just the lights—only smiled.

“I need—” Emmett stepped back. “Sorry to interrupt this. I need another drink.”

“Sure!” Francesca was all breeziness, all the time. “I’ll go dance with Harry, and make his little night.”

“You’re a gem.”

“As long as it’s a diamond, honey.” She swept away.

Grace hadn’t moved.

“Hi,” Emmett said. “Thought you might have changed your mind and not come.”

“I accepted the invitation,” Grace said, like it should be obvious. She was wearing a simple dress. Navy blue. It showed off her collarbones. Emmett would know; he’d tried to paint them before, without success. Grace’s collarbones were just as stubborn as the rest of her.

“Well,” he said. “Uh…do you want a drink? I came to get a drink.”

Her eyes shifted slowly across the dancefloor. The dancefloor, of course, being the open-floor-plan space of the Coles’ house, on an ordinary day. “You looked like you were having fun.”

His hand drifted towards his cheek, where Francesca had marked him. “Yeah. Yeah, I am.”

Grace’s mouth twitched down at one corner. “Here,” she said, all competence. “Let me.” She reached up, hand steady—why should he even notice that her hand was steady?—and dragged her thumb outwards from the edge of his lip. “Got it.”

Emmett felt weirdly self-conscious. To stop himself from echoing her movement with his own fingertips, he cast about for something to say. “Oh…you did the thing with your hair.”

She shrugged. “Tried, anyway. Rosa helped.”

“It looks—” he stopped just short of beautiful, as so many things did. “Nice.”

Grace’s eyes went down, up, down, a flurry of lashes and something he didn’t quite catch. “Thanks.” She turned, pointed towards the drink table, commanding him. “I think you were on an errand, right? She’ll want you back again soon.”

Yes, Emmett supposed she would. Hadn’t that been his whole plan?

It was a ridiculous party.


	20. Chapter XX

_“No, I have never had such an idea, and I cannot adopt it now.”_

_i._

On Saturday afternoons, long ago, Julia and she would drive down in to Highbury and go grocery-shopping. It started when Julia got her drivers’ license, and in hindsight, it was arguably part of their parents’ initial process of inching towards retirement.

They never bought strawberries.

Julia, of course, had hated grocery shopping. Grace remembered rubbing papery onion skins between her fingers, tapping melons, lifting the rough-edged lids of egg cartons, all while Julia rested her elbows on the push-bar of the cart and complained.

Grace missed those trips.

Now, alone, she thought of humming to herself as she lifted a head of lettuce. Maybe the first bars of an old Van Morrison song that had been rattling in her ears all day—something to fill the silence. But the only silence here, really, was what she had brought with her. All around, above the whir of the cooling system and the chatter of cashiers, there was sound. There was the postman’s wife with their twin toddlers, babbling happily—there was old Mr. Gerardo, hands full of pomegranates—

A pomegranate.

That was what she wanted. Grace put aside her silence and chose a few, pressing against their dull purple hides with the pad of her thumb.

The fruit stalls were beautiful, their multi-hued armies marching row by row. She wondered offhandedly if Emmett had ever tried to paint them. But maybe he didn’t like still lifes, or anything _still_ at all, and maybe she didn’t have an artist’s eye. 

“Grace?”

Grace set her pomegranates into the upper shelf of her cart and turned.

Francesca had no cart. She had a carton of organic soy milk on one hand and her hair was halfway between a curl and a wave, languid and silken.

“Hi,” Grace said. Politeness demanded a smile. As for anything beyond that, Grace surveyed her options of expression—landed on _pathetic, drab, ordinary_ , and refused to acknowledge them.

“I’m trying to be a local for a little while,” Francesca explained, as if she was divulging a delicious secret, only for her and Grace to share.  “Not sure how it’s working out, because I can’t find anything in this place, but we’ll see.”

Grace didn’t forget things. She wasn’t going to forget Francesca’s pointed nails grazing the nape of Emmett’s neck, her hips slanted against his, their wicked, golden grins tilted in unison.

_That’s just the way people dance._

Mantras were only as effective as they were true.

“You still have another week, right?”

“Yeah. Might go back early. Don’t know yet.” Francesca said it so lightly, Grace thought, like she didn’t hold a sister’s happiness in those pearly-nailed hands.

“Oh,” was Grace’s vague contribution.

“Then again”—and here was a touch less of lightness—“Maybe I’ve found something to stay for. What do you think. He’s pretty cute, huh?”

Pain blossomed in Grace’s throat and chest, but she just lifted up another pomegranate and set it carefully beside her purse. “I’m sure you’ll do what you think is best.”

Francesca shrugged, but somehow it almost looked as if her shoulders stooped a little. “We’ll see. See you around, Miss Caballero.” She strode off, and Grace watched her go.

Maybe being a free spirit wasn’t the same as being free. 

 _Hijo de puta_ , she sighed, shoving her cart away from the produce section altogether. _Why are you bothering with sympathy?_

The thought buzzed around her mind like a bothersome gnat all the way to the checkout line. Once there, hemmed in by glossy magazines proclaiming the come-back of this and that celebrity, she nearly crashed into Jake Fairfax.

He was carrying a carton of soy milk. Grace’s brow wrinkled.

“Hey, Grace.” He seemed tense.

“Hey, Jake.”

“Uncle Arthur likes it.” He waggled the carton in his hand. Her eyes must have fallen on it.

“Yeah, I’m more of a true dairy person myself,” she said, unloading her groceries. An elderly woman with age-spotted hands was lifting boxes of cereal slowly onto the conveyer ahead of them.

Jake was trapped. He said nothing. Then his hand flexed.

“Homecoming is hard,” Grace said softly, like they weren’t standing together under the cheerful, impersonal fluorescents. Then, too, she said it like she knew anything about homecoming, like she had ever dared to go away. “I hope you’re not putting too much on yourself, Jake. We’re glad to see you. That’s all it needs to be.”

He nodded tightly, and smiled as an afterthought. Like most afterthoughts, it was incomplete. What he said next was unexpected. “You should come by and visit. Uncle Arthur likes to see you. I don’t want you to feel—” He waved a hand that said, _like you can’t come when I’m around_ , fairly clearly.

“I will,” Grace said. Jake was next up. It took a minute, maybe less, for the cashier to ring him up.

When she made it out into the parking lot, she shifted the bags, three on each arm, and fumbled for her keys as the circulation in her hands seemed to drop, screaming, after only about five seconds. The day was split open like a ripe fruit, mingling sunlight with sweat.

Her mouth watered. _Never go shopping when you’re hungry_.

She avoided any additional impulse shopping stops on the way home, however, and sliced some cheese for herself to nibble alongside the pomegranate as she padded barefoot across the floors she had swept the night before.

The fruit looked like living gems. She loved it.

She thought of Persephone, a princess going down into eternal darkness.

As to Persephone, of course, Grace had never been able to relate. She was more drawn to myths about gods who lived and walked above mountaintops, dazzling mere mortals with their light.

Sun gods.

She thought of trying to start a new book, but she had six unfinished on her Kindle already. Her eyes always seemed to drop shut when she lay on her side at night. She stretched her neck and finished her snack and decided that a little paperwork wouldn’t hurt.

_Is this how it’s going to be forever? You need a vacation._

_I live in strawberry country. This is where people_ go _to take time off._

She penciled in another figure and massaged her temples.

_It’s your life. You get to mourn it a little, every once in a while._

Grace took another deep breath.

_ii._

A day spent with Noel and Ashley (and more to the present point, Francesca) was wholly enjoyable. Emmett admired Ashley’s new kitten, much as he disliked the way its sandy fur dusted over his impeccable jeans, and bantered to his heart’s content.

Francesca had ducked out for an errand for a bit, and he napped a little. It was Noel’s house; basically a second home. Or a third home, if he counted Grace’s.

Maybe Emmett was a collector of homes.

The sound of Francesca’s car got him up again, awake and alert. She came in and scratched the kitten between the ears, and set something down on the kitchen counter while Noel stepped out to re-park the car.

Francesca was, self-avowedly, terrible at parking.

“What’s that?” Emmett demanded.

“See?” Her smile was like a dare. “This is why I wouldn’t you let come with me. You would have judged me while I made my very important soy milk selection, and then I wouldn’t have been able to buy it all.”

He shuddered. “It is abysmal.”

“Whatever.” But she blew him a kiss as she opened the refrigerator, so it wasn’t all for nothing.

A little while passed. Emmett was stretched on the couch with one knee crooked up, but he moved aside so Francesca could sit down beside him. (The trick was, of course, only moving when she’d made a beeline for him. That was the game.)

Noel and Ashley were sharing the big chair across from them, just as soon as Noel had hung up the car keys.

“I stopped by to see Arthur Bates this morning,” Noel said.

“Ugh, _why_?” Emmett yawned. Grace wasn’t present to call him out on such insolence.

Francesca flicked him lightly on the cheek.  “Wow, you really do have a medical condition that requires you to be an asshole for at least five minutes a day, don’t you?”

“But you love it,” Emmett snarked back. He said _love_ just to see how it sounded.

Francesca blinked lazily, close enough that her breath ghosted against his cheek. “Everyone loves it.”

He watched the knowing glance slide between Noel and Ashley, and pretended he hadn’t.

Francesca pushed herself up off the couch after a moment’s pause, but she put her hand on his shoulder to do it, her palm pressing hard against him. “I’m going to make an iced latte. Em, you want one?”

“Not with soy milk.” Out of faint compunction, Emmett turned back to Noel. “You were saying something, right?”

“Yeah. I was at Arthur’s. Jake Fairfax got a piano.”

Emmett lifted his eyebrows. “What?”

“An upright grand. Small-ish, but beautiful. No idea how they fit it up those stairs. Got delivered yesterday, Arthur was saying.”

Emmett drummed his fingers on his chin, iced lattes forgotten. “Wait, so you’re saying someone got him one?”

Noel chuckled. “That’s just the thing, though. Arthur was thrilled about it, of course, so he told me everything. It’s a mystery. They don’t know who sent it.”

Emmett, admittedly—though he didn’t bother admitting it, so perhaps he didn’t deserve the adverb—was a gossipmonger. “A mysterious admirer!” he exclaimed, for of course that must be the answer.

Ashley plucked affectionately at Noel’s sleeve. “Don’t be silly, boys. It’s probably from his father.”

Emmett flinched a little. “Nah,” he said, like he was a person who didn’t flinch. He grinned, struck with a sudden thought. “Lindsey Dixon. Shit. That’s got to be it.” He practically chortled.

“Come on,” Ashley said. “Does he even know her?”

“Campbell orchestra? You bet he knows her. Better than knows her.”

Francesca had come back in, bearing two ice-crowned glasses. “What are we talking about?”

“Someone got Jake Fairfax a mystery piano.” Emmett amended the statement after a moment, “Well, the _someone_ is a mystery, not the piano. Same eighty-eight whites and blacks, I presume.”

“And you think it’s Lindsey Dixon?” Francesca’s face was almost uncertain, and then her eyes sparkled. “Naughty.”

He sipped his drink and held her gaze over the rim of the glass. “I can be.”

Even Noel rolled his eyes at that. “I had a better theory, actually, than your gossip rag crap.”

Emmett set his drink down (on a coaster, of course), and clamped his hands on his knees. “Go for it, my man. _Amaze_ me.” Francesca sank down beside him again, pressed warmly along the lines of shoulder to knee.

“Grace.”

Emmett hated how a single word could suck all the air out of a room. He huffed out a laugh, even though laughter used oxygen and as established, there was little enough of that left. “What?”

“My theory,” Noel said, calmly rather than cannily, “Is that Grace and Jake have a thing going. I mean, think about it? They’re both like, kind of lowkey. Thoughtful. And she’s got the business acumen and he’s got talent. She could save him.”

“Grace isn’t going to save _Jake Fairfax_.” Emmett’s inflection was indignant. “Grace isn’t getting _married_ , Noel. She doesn’t _date_ people. And she’s extremely frugal. She’d never buy someone a _piano_.”

Noel was staring at him. They all were.

Emmett had lost himself. He picked his way back down to earth as one might climb down a ladder, which was to say: ungracefully. “I’m just _saying_ ,” he drawled, with a (failed) attempt at suavity, “I’ve got to think of our shared nephew here. Julia has already insisted that he inherit the Farms one day. I can’t agree to a theory of Grace squandering all their hard-earned business away on pianos! Surely you wouldn’t want that.”

Noel bit his lip like he was trying not to laugh. “Surely not.”

Still, it did no good. He left Noel and Ashley’s after dinner, and in the soft air of night he threw caution to the wind that spun through his windows and pulled into Caballero Farms just after eight-thirty.

He pounded on the door. “Grace!”

He was halfway through the second round of knocking when he realized that firstly, he had nothing to say, and secondly, that she was going to be pissed by someone knocking on her door like that.

The door opened. He wasn’t prepared for what he saw.

Grace’s hair was spun up in a towel, and she was wearing a bathrobe.

He wouldn’t have expected Grace to own a bathrobe.

Most strikingly, her entire face was covered in a sheet mask.

“Emmett, what in all hell is going on? Is it your mom?”

He pursed his lips, feeling abominably foolish. “Um…nope. Just—came by to—uh—” He scratched the back of his head demonstratively, then flicked a curious finger in the direction of her general ensemble. “You do sheet masks?”

“I’m sure _you_ do,” Grace said, shoulders relaxing a little. Right. She’d thought this was an emergency. “But no, not generally. Julia sent me some, and she’s been haranguing me…Emmett, what is going on?”

“Do you have a date?” _God_ , one of these days he was going to stab himself right through the temple with a red-hot poker. Just end it _all_ , painfully and dramatically.

Grace’s mouth dropped a little. She looked ghoulish with the mask on, but also—he watched a droplet of water trail down the exposed line of her throat and slip under the edge of her robe.

“Emmett, are you drunk?”

He shook his head slowly.

“Are you… _high_?”

He rolled his eyes, doing his best Valley Girl impression of disgust. “No, Grace. I’m not _high_. I’m just…” There was no explanation.

Grace sighed and waved a hand. “Come in, you lughead.”

“What did you just call me?”

“First thing that came to mind,” she said, over her shoulder. She walked down the hall to the bathroom and shut the door behind her.

Emmett hadn’t been in the big cathedral-ceiling room for a while. He rocked back on his heels. They used to play hide-and-seek in here. Ike was terrible at it. Julia wasn’t.

Grace came back without the mask. “Are you OK? I seriously thought that there was someone injured. Otherwise I would not have opened the door like this.”

“You weren’t like, in your underwear or anything,” he said, to be comforting.

She misunderstood him. “I’m wearing underwear, Emmett!”

A silence fell. He almost drove his teeth through his lip and stared at the floor.

“Did someone tell you that I was going on a date?” Grace tightened the sash on her robe, and sat down on the couch. He sat several cushions away.

 _No. Yes. I don’t know why I’m here._ He recovered himself. “No, I just—yeah, someone said something, I guess, but it’s not important what—and I was just…I was pissed that you hadn’t told me.”

“So you thought that the best alternative was breaking down my door and demanding to know my plans?” Grace’s voice was a little chilly. Or at best, school-teacherish. “Em, seriously? I’d tell you if I had something important going on, just like…well, just like I’d tell Julia.” Her toes were still poking out of the hem of the robe, even though she’d drawn her knees up. They had dark red polish on them. “But no, there isn’t anybody in my life right now.”

“But there could be someone? Eventually?” He sounded waspish, and he knew it. He had handled this entire day terribly, from beginning to strangely-tattered-end.

Grace stared at him, wide-eyed, steady. “Would you rather I die alone?”

He stood up. “I didn’t say that.”

She stood up too. “If something’s bothering you…you can tell me.”

Nothing was. That was the problem. He’d just—shown up here. “I’m fine,” he said. “Just probably twenty-plus years of untreated ADHD at work, or something.”

“OK,” Grace ducked her head, and a lock of damp hair slipped out, clinging to her neck.

“You were about to go to bed,” Emmett said. He had done something more vulgar and obtrusive than all the people he criticized. He had barged in to someone’s—yes, a close friend, but that didn’t matter—intimate life with all the sensitivity of a toddler or a raging bull. The two had more in common than one would like to think. “I’m so sorry.”

Grace rubbed her shoulder under her robe. “It’s really fine. I just—I was startled.”

He wasn’t going to sleep tonight. Never did, after a particularly embarrassing episode of being himself, when he had to come to renewed terms with the fact that he was a A-grade screw-up. “Good night, Grace.”

She followed him out to the door. “Good night, Emmett,” she said. Her voice wasn’t chilly anymore, but he didn’t stay to figure out what, exactly, it was.


	21. Chapter XXI

_“But really, I am half ashamed, and wish I had never taken up the idea.”_

_i._

“You _can’t_ be serious.”

Julia couldn’t see her, through the phone, so Grace could have allowed herself a wince. But she steeled her resolve and her gaze, fixed as it was on the guileless Paco. “I asked if Dan was still single.”

“I mean, yeah, as far as I know. I just can’t believe that you’re—”

“Bringing up a joke you made two years ago?”

“Asking me to set you up a date.”

“I need to get out more.”

“Is he screwing someone?”

Grace felt herself flush hotly, a full-faced blush. “Who? What?”

“Emmett.”

Grace ground her teeth. This was _exactly_ why she knew better than to come to Julia for advice, and yet—here she was, and not for the first time. “Julia, I don’t know the details of Emmett’s personal life. Furthermore, it’s irrelevant.”

“Well that’s a load of _mierda_.”

“Can you just—ask Dan if he’s still interested?”

Dan O’Ryan. Pale Irish type, friendly and known. Grace listened to the silence of Julia’s consideration—silence being, of course, an unusual state for Julia—and finally heard a little sigh. “Fine. You just want me to tell him you’d like to get dinner?”

It felt like jumping off of a cliff, but Grace was not much one for any kind of leap, so she was likely exaggerating the sensation. “Yes. I’m free tonight, if he is.”

She stretched out on the sofa in shameful indolence after Julia hung up. Emmett had himself to thank for this development, she mused, and then discarded the notion disgustedly.

_No, you’re doing this yourself. For yourself._

She was bored, and lonely, and it was time to do something that challenged her. Work burdened her; it didn’t challenge her.

The bright autumn felt interminably long. Francesca had not left yet, at least, not to Grace’s knowledge. And that was a tangle of a problem. She _wanted_ Francesca to leave, but the reason was rather unkind. She just—didn’t _like_ Francesca. It was with reason, but wasn’t that always the excuse for a lack of charity?

Grace shut her eyes. It wasn’t fair to wish Francesca away, if only for Emmett’s sake. There _must_ be something there, by now. Enough to hurt him, if it should end.

Julia’s return text was affirmative. Dan would meet her in Santa Cruz at six-thirty. Julia promised she’d framed it as a meeting between old friends, though she’d _hinted_ at something more.

Grace readied herself with all the resolve and conviction that accompanied armoring oneself for battle. The sheath dress and low heels might as well have clanked with chainmail.

 _Silly, silly._ Grace twisted the curling iron again, tugging a little too hard. Her thoughts had circled back to the inevitable again. Francesca wasn’t…malicious. But Francesca _was_ the kind of girl who would enjoy having a heart to pinch between her fingers.

 _Who wouldn’t?_ suggested an internal voice, cynical enough that it could only be Julia.

Grace arrived in Santa Cruz early, and wandered about before returning to the café where they’d agreed to meet. Dan was more broad-shouldered than she remembered.

“Dan?”

“Grace!” He shook her hand, folding it in both of his. “It’s been ages.”

It had been, in fact, since her college graduation. But for some reason, Julia had been the one to stay in touch with the O’Ryans, even though Grace had been the same class year as Dan, and a year above Maggie.

“I’m going to come clean.” He had a straight-toothed grin. “Julia told me that you took over the business from your parents, and that you really needed a break.”

It was the one thing Grace always hated admitting, which provided sufficient explanation for the wince in her smile. “Yes,” she said, because she had chosen this. “I needed a break.”

“How about Italian?”

There was a corner place, smoky in light rather than in air, with tucked-away tables and a long bar. It was crowded, but Dan seemed to know the owner. He lifted a hand and a women with a slick ponytail nodded and gestured.

They sat by the window. He pulled the chair out for her, and Grace was reminded that this was technically a date. It felt unromantic. Then again, that was at least half her fault. She was not romantic by nature and this felt like more of a tête-a-tête, just this side of business casual, than anything… _charged_ with meaning.

Dan was an accountant. He didn’t talk much about his work, though Grace wouldn’t have minded—she did most of her own bookkeeping. They talked about movies and the warm weather and Julia and Ike.

“What’s Ike’s younger brother doing? Emmett? That kid was…something else.”

Grace tilted her head. “He’s an artist,” she said, a little coldly. “He’s very talented.”

Dan nodded, and the conversation turned.

Grace bowed out before the twilight could fall too murkily, too suggestively, and said that she had an errand to run. They hugged, and he kissed her cheek.

She swiped absently at the spot with her hand when he was out of sight. She ought to text Julia and tell her that it had gone well, but it…hadn’t. It hadn’t gone badly either, though, so what was wrong with her? She felt numb.

No explanation could justify why she picked up a bottle of Mrs. Woodhouse’s favorite wine from a shop and ended up at the Woodhouses’ almost as late as Emmett had visited her.

They were playing chess together and Emmett was letting his mother win. It was a grace he accorded to few; he was generally a very sore loser. Watching them before they saw her—housekeeping had let her in—she was stiffened with a pang of _not belonging_ , as though Dan O’Ryan’s kiss on her cheek had marked her apart from an older life.

As if a kiss could do that!

“Grace!” Emmett exclaimed, and all was right again.

He walked her out, leaving his mother still contentedly examining the wine.  

Grace meant to say, “I went on a date today,” but the words didn’t come. And Emmett looked strangely calm along the lines of his shoulders and the smile playing at the corners of his mouth—it must have been a good day.

“Your mom seemed pretty chipper,” she said. There was a breeze blowing up along the driveway, and she breathed it in.

“Yeah. She found some of my old paintings, and was happy.” Emmett laughed softly. “They were terrible, honestly.” He wheeled on her suddenly, all demand and intensity. “Do you think I should go to law school?”

Grace stared at him. The idea had never entered her head. “No, I think you’d hate it. Why?”

“Oh, good. Ike’s college roommate just made partner at his firm.” He scratched the back of his neck, suddenly seeming irritated. “Why does Julia tell me these things?”

A tightness formed in Grace’s chest, at what else Julia might have told him, if they’d talked. But no, she reassured herself—no, Julia wanted Emmett with Grace, which was silly, but which would also prevent her from trying to cause trouble between them. Even as friends.

Only as friends.

“Julia says a lot of crap. She once said she thought I shouldn’t have given up ballet.”

Emmett frowned. “I don’t remember you doing ballet.”

Grace felt that warm rush of feeling that had been strangely absent all day. “You were a baby, silly. I only did it when I was four or five.”

“Huh.” He nibbled his lower lip. “Maybe…I should paint you as a ballerina. Giselle, instead of Grace.”

Grace flushed. “Like I said, Julia says a lot of crap. It wouldn’t suit me at all.”

His eyes stayed on her for longer than she could understand. “I don’t know about that.”

Grace put her purse into her car and stood by the open door. “Thanks for letting me drop in, as always.”

“Of course,” Emmett said, hands in his pockets. The line of his shoulders was a little less easy than it had been moments before. “Hey, Grace?”

“Yes?”

“You know…well, you know how I asked you, the other night, if…well, you said you’d tell me, if anything important happened. In your life. Like, if you met someone. Would you—would you want me to do the same? I mean, if I…”

Grace’s tongue was heavy in her mouth. She said, “Emmett, you never have to tell me anything you don’t want to.”

“But I—would _you_ want me to?”

No, she wouldn’t. Wouldn’t want to think—to _know_ —of his hands and lips on Francesca, wouldn’t want to hear that Emmett loved someone. It would change things too strangely, that was all.

She wouldn’t, couldn’t say why.

“The other side of the coin,” Grace said, very calmly, “Is that you can always tell me things when you want to. I’ll always listen.”

It wasn’t the answer to his question, but he nodded all the same. “Alright. Good night, Grace.”

She didn’t breathe again until she was driving away.

_ii._

All things considered, Grace had taken a certain ill-conceived evening visit well in stride.

Then again, Grace was known for taking things in stride.

Emmett liked to fold up past concerns and lock them away somewhere soon forgotten. Armed, therefore, with the knowledge that Grace would never lie, he decided to never worry again that she liked or loved Jake Fairfax.

She’d tell him if she did.

She didn’t.

He went to dinner at Noel and Ashley’s with a light heart, a day or so later, on Francesca’s invitation.

Jake was _there_.

A slap in the face, really, though Arthur was technically more irritating.

“I’m sorry I didn’t warn you,” Francesca said in his ear. “I needed your…support.”

“Thank you for choosing me,” he retorted flippantly, half under his breath. “At least there’s no piano here.”

Francesca laughed. “Speaking of your Lindsey Dixon theory, I saw her face on a tabloid this morning. Think it must kill poor Jake to even go to the grocery store?”

“Probably.” Emmett cast a glance at Jake, who was talking stiffly with Noel. _God_ , did the kid ever relax?

 _He’s not a kid any more than you are,_ Grace said in his head. _Actually, he’s far superior to you in maturity_.

He flicked the voice away.

“Maybe the piano’s made of _lin_ den wood,” Francesca suggested. Her eyes glinted with laughter. “That would be appropriate.” She turned, nodding in Jake’s direction. “I’m going to go over there and ask him all about it, emphasis included.”

“Don’t do it!” Emmett set a hand on her elbow, a little frantic. “Don’t—he’s definitely not the kind to take a joke.”

“I don’t know.” Francesca pressed her lips together speculatively. “I’d like to see him blush.”

Emmett moved his hand from her elbow to her waist, very casually. “I think you like to make everyone blush.”

She pushed him gently away, fingernails scraping lightly against his wrist, making his skin tingle. “Blush all you like,” she said. “This will only take a minute.”

He watched her cross the room and didn’t follow. He didn’t want to be obvious, even if by nature he was always the most obvious person in any given room. Francesca talked to Jake with her back turned, which was unhelpful, and she was blocking Emmett’s view of Jake’s face, more unhelpfully still.

They talked too long for mere jibes. Emmett turned away. The room was strangely uneven, all of a moment. He wished that Grace was there. She was good to talk to in the in-between moments.

He imagined her steady eyes, daring him to pretend that he had phrased that right.

But it wasn’t an insult. It wasn’t.

He had no way of telling if Francesca had been successful in making Jake blush—she avoided the subject later in the evening, and Jake was as cold and taciturn as ever. Emmett wondered why Noel and Ashley had even invited the Bates clan over at all. They weren’t much for company.

He feigned a headache and bowed out early, an hour after dinner or so. He was tired. Yes, even Emmett got tired.

Francesca ran after him when he headed for his car.  “Hey, you!”

He slowed his step so she could catch up to him, spin around in front of him, and tilt her chin a little daringly.

“Yes?”

In the fading light, she was still golden.. “We’re going to San Fran tomorrow. Come with us.”

“Who’s ‘us’?”

“Me and Ashley. It’s my last weekend, you know. We’re going to get a hotel and have a grand old time. You in?”

He nodded. Emmett never (well, rarely) said no to adventures. And his heartrate hiked up a little, prompted by the idea that this might be more than just a weekend excursion. Ashley certainly approved of…whatever this was…and it would be the perfect opportunity for—

“Yeah,” he said. “I’m in.” He should love her by now, because a few weeks must be enough for the shallows of human affection as he knew it

But Francesca arrived early the next morning, and something had changed in her face. Emmett let her in the front door and she paced the hallway. “Is your mom around?”

“She’s still sleeping.”

She shifted from one heeled boot to the other. “I’ll be quiet then.”

Emmett, when he had to be, could be ten steps ahead. At the moment, he had maybe two or three on her. “No San Francisco, huh?”

Francesca stared at the ground. He’d never seen her like this. She lifted her chin at last, though the movement was bereft of daring, and took a step towards him. “No. Sorry.” Then she took one of his hands in both of hers. They were close—close enough that Emmett could have kissed her, if he’d wanted to. He—

—did not know if he wanted to.

“I booked my flight home for later today,” Francesca said. “Turns out my mom couldn’t wait.”

“Is she alright?”

She looked at him as if for the first time. “I don’t think she ever really is.”

Emmett was silent because he understood.

“I’m sorry about—well, a trip would have been fun. But I think…Emmett, there’s something I want to tell you. I’ve been playing games this whole time. You can tell, can’t you?”

Emmett was a master of games. Had to be. There wasn’t any other explanation for his purpose. “Yes.”

Francesca exhaled a deep, shuddering breath. “Cool. I still…I shouldn’t saying this, I’m going to screw up everything—”

He lifted a hand to her cheek, grazing his thumb just below her temple. Waited to feel something. “You won’t.”

Was this the moment to kiss her? To seal with lips what a hundred looks had _almost_ said, in the past few weeks?

“Francesca?”

Ashley was walking through the front door.

Francesca leapt back. Her lips were open, full of the unspoken words that Emmett felt fairly sure he could guess for himself.

Ashley came in. “Hey, Emmett. I’m so sorry about—well, she’ll be back, won’t you, hon?” She glanced at her watch. Even in adversity, Ashley was cheerful. “Sorry to rush, but Francesca, we should be going—just in case there’s traffic.”

Emmett raised a hand, a silent goodbye. He was tongue-tied, or something even quieter than that. A total stillness of heart and head.

Francesca shut her eyes. If he had had a reason to believe it, he would have thought she looked ashamed. But that made no sense at all, so Emmett folded the look up and locked it away to be forgotten.


	22. Chapter XXII

_“I do not find myself making any use of the word_ sacrifice _.”_

_i._

Early October was the height of planting season. Grace was in the fields from dawn until mid-afternoon, when she left for a shower, a meal, and bookkeeping. A voice that might equally have been Julia or Emmett told her that a nap would be better still, but she pushed the voice away.

She had planned a visit to her parents for Columbus Day weekend—much as Grace was loath to celebrate the man—but it seemed she would have to postpone. She pinched the bridge of her nose and yawned achingly.

Highbury had shifted in shades of color to something a little softer and safer than before. Grace called it autumn, the same as everyone else did, and thought of Francesca’s absence when she breathed easier.

“She’s coming back as soon as she can,” Ashley assured everyone who asked, and a few who didn’t. “She loved it here.”

And Grace, steady and pleasant, replied without fail, when it was her turn to do so, that she was glad Francesca had enjoyed her stay.

Jake Fairfax stayed, whether he was enjoying himself or not. He was close-lipped and pale and afflicted by headaches more than ever. Grace worried over him from an uncomfortable social distance that made her feel rather powerless to do anything for him. She visited Arthur left out of respect for Jake’s privacy in the small Bates’ apartment, but on one occasion she dropped a mention that the town library was woefully understaffed.

The next time she saw Jake, he was shelving books.

Grace bit back her smile and said nothing, hoping that she’d helped.

She said nothing about it to Emmett—he himself was rather touchy on the subject of jobs, even though she knew he did a good deal of thankless work for his family’s charity interests. He was surprisingly quiet about that. Emmett liked praise more than anyone Grace knew, but even she had to admit that he liked it in specific measures, on specific bases.

And yes, only from specific people.

 

The dash of color in Highbury’s aesthetic, which Grace herself had not missed, was restored by the forewarned arrival of August Hawkins and his fiancée. If Grace had not lost sleep over the departure of Francesca Church, she ground her teeth at the return of Marnie.

Marnie and August snatched up a white elephant on the nicest street in Highbury. The house was lovely but had been historically riddled with all sorts of interior flaws. Either August was far from the real estate guru he claimed to be, or he had avocational ambitions.

“She was a nice girl,” Mrs. Woodhouse said, on a Saturday evening when Grace was making an overdue visit. Emmett was not at home. “Very nice. A little—well, you know. I am tired so easily. I wonder that Emmett even puts up with me.”

“Emmett loves you so much,” Grace reminded her earnestly, though she couldn’t extend any eagerness to the discussion of Marnie. “We all do, Mrs. W.”

“Now you,” Mrs. Woodhouse said, smiling. Her smile called Ike to mind much more than Emmett; Emmett looked like his father. Like his father _had_ looked, of course. “You’re more than nice, Grace. You’re _good_. That’s a harder trick to pull off.”

Grace never knew what to do in the face of compliments. She ducked her head in thanks.

“They bought that big house…and living together before they are married? Seems a little—well, I’m not going to judge. Times change.”

Times might change. August Hawkins didn’t.

The next day, in the supermarket parking lot: “Grace, right?”

She wheeled around, careful to keep her grip on her groceries.

Marnie’s arm was tucked in his. Grace felt the heat of anger rise up in her cheeks, and reminded herself to breathe. Marnie had changed her hair from auburn to brunette. The watch on her wrist was new, too.

“Hello, August. Marnie. I hope you’re settling in well?”

August pouted heavily. “Not as well as we could be, by a damn sight!”

Grace gave no encouragement to this not wholly unexpected direction.

“You know what I want. Your strawberry kingdom.”

“She’s ob _sessed_ with it, though,” Marnie trilled. She rolled her eyes in Grace’s direction, as though they were sharing a secret. “I keep telling him, girl. You will _not_ give it up. Not after you’ve gotten media coverage and are having a great year, right? I mean, I assume you are. I don’t know anything about strawberry farming. I know you tried to explain it to me, like, a _million_ times.”

“Surely not a million,” Grace said quietly. “Well, August, I hope that you’ve found Highbury has more to offer than strawberries, all the same.” She opened the hatch of her car and put the bags in two by two.

They were hovering. Grace disliked hovering.

“You need to come to our housewarming party,” August blurted. He was wearing such heavy cologne that Grace could smell it even in the open air.

Marnie joggled his elbow. “Babe, that is no way to give out invitations! We’ll _mail_ them. It will be cute.”

“She’s on the list though, right?”

Grace shut the hatch.

“Of course, babe!”

Grace wrapped her right hand around her left elbow—it seemed a sight more polite than folding her arms over her chest—and said, with her best boardroom smile, “I’m afraid I have to get going, but thank you both for saying hello.”

She muttered a few vivid phrases in English and Spanish on the drive home. A housewarming party indeed! Would they expect gifts, even after August had made clear to anyone he met that he was rolling smoothly along, thanks to his family’s successful tri-county business? Would they—

 _Stop it_. Grace glanced severely at herself in the rearview. She disliked Marnie for good reason, and she disliked August because he was boorish and entitled. But the existence of such facts did not mean that she should waste the rest of a necessarily productive day in stewing over their slights to kin and county. Offhandedly, she found herself remembering how she had almost vowed to Emmett that she would find a way to make Marnie pay, someday—

But what right had she, Grace, to exact vengeance? And on Emmett’s behalf?

Emmett had spent the weeks since Francesca’s departure as occupied yet indolent, cheerful yet petulant, as he ever was. But there had been a little spring to his step, a depth to his looks, as though he was turning something over and over in his mind. That something was undoubtedly Francesca and whatever was between them.

Emmett had found direction in his sometimes-aimless life. Of that, Grace was sure.

And even Marnie and August and their ugly attempts at social graces were unlikely to change that.

_ii._

Emmett had always harbored an interest in finding out what it felt like to be in love, and having decided that he _was_ in love with Francesca, set about further investigations.

The results were baffling. An all-over tingling sensation _must_ be just the thing—but it passed. A mild kind of obsession—thinking about her _frequently_ if not _constantly_ —seemed too lackluster to have earned quite so many sonnets and sonatas in the course of the recorded world.

He liked to think of her; he liked to hear about her from Ashley and Noel; he liked to get her occasional texts, most of which were jokes and puns and nothing more.

He tried painting the feeling—tried painting _her_ —and was finished too quickly with an acrylic piece that…entirely did her justice. It was just so: there was Francesca, captured on canvas.

Emmett turned the brush between his fingers and wondered if there was any satisfaction in a question that didn’t have to wait for an answer.

He imagined a future where Francesca came into his life again, threw her arms around him and professed her undying love. They were entertaining fantasies. They all concluded one way: Emmett kissed her, probably, and then told her that it wasn’t meant to be.

It always wasn’t meant to be.

So. New hypothesis. He _wasn’t_ in love with her. And that was alright too, because how was he supposed to leave Mom and go back to the East Coast? Mom would hate that, wouldn’t she? And then, too, he liked to call every day his own and do exactly how he pleased, and he liked wandering over to Grace’s whenever he felt like it, and surely there was no girlfriend in the world who would put up with that—

Anyway, he wasn’t in love.

He was rather bored after that. Grace was in the middle of the planting season and that made him feel woefully inadequate because he had no competing duties of his own. He threw himself into the managing the family charities as best he could, but it wasn’t quite enough. He brought up the law school idea again, internally, but didn’t even bother consulting with Ike. Julia would hear of it, and mock him, and he hated lawyers, always had.

Harry’s company filled the gap, a bit. He had been working a few less hours at the bank—they had a couple new hires—and he was happy to make the trek to Hartfield.

Maybe Harry should date Francesca. She was much cleverer, but most people were cleverer than Harry—it wasn’t Harry’s fault. Harry was good, and kind, and that was what _actually_ mattered.

Emmett was a selfish bastard, and in the rare, sharply tapered moment, he knew that _everyone_ deserved better than that.

The idea of pairing Francesca with Harry seemed a noble one until he reminded himself that he had damn well sworn off matchmaking, thank-you-very-much, and it wasn’t the time to slide back into it. He didn’t mention it to Harry at dinner that night.

Then again, Harry was preoccupied with something else. Had been all day.

“They’ve moved in together.”

Everyone knew about it. August Hawkins and Marnie, descending in triumph to _Highbury_ , of all places. Emmett had returned to Hartfield, not exactly in _triumph_ , he wasn’t _that_ pretentious, and also, it was his _home_. Marnie had barely dipped a toe in it. And now she was throwing a housewarming party?

Some people had too much nerve.

He snapped his attention back to Harry, who was staring glumly at his plate. Mom was lying down because she thought she had a cold coming on, so it was just the two of them.

Emmett popped open another beer. “Dude. You know you’re like…way too good for her, right? We’ve been over this.”

“When I think of her coming back here and not thinking of me…” Harry shook his head. “It’s like my chest is filled with lead.”

Damn, what kind of dreadful beat poetry had Harry been reading lately? Emmett raised his eyebrows in alarm. “You might want to see a doctor about that.”

“About what?” Harry stared at him. “Oh, no. It was just a meta—metaphor.”

“I’m teasing you,” Emmett hastened to assure him. “But you really shouldn’t be taking this to heart so much. There’s a girl out there who’s right for you, I promise.”

“I just wish I hadn’t met her,” Harry sighed. “Now I have to know that whoever the right girl is, it isn’t _her_.”

Emmett chewed his lip. This wasn’t the first conversation of the day—or even of the hour—about Marnie. And yes, perhaps this was just another emblem of his own insurmountable selfishness, but it was also that he didn’t want to see Harry keep getting hurt. “Look,” he said. “You don’t owe me anything. You really don’t. But you’ve got to let go of this. And if you can’t—I mean, all I can think every time you mention her, is how I failed you as a friend, leading you on because I didn’t see what was really going on. Just reminds me I’m a crap friend, I guess.”

It was for Harry’s benefit. Harry wouldn’t do anything for himself. But he’d do anything for Emmett, which was a rather beautiful and terrible thing.

Indeed, Harry’s jaw dropped. “You—what? No! Never! Seriously, man. You’re the best friend I’ve ever had. I’m not kidding. I don’t know—”

Emmett waved a hand. “It’s not about that, Harry, really it’s not. I just want you to be happy and I hate to think of the times I’ve been the one to keep that from happening.”

Harry nodded. His face was red with embarrassment. All of a sudden it occurred to Emmett that it was Harry’s simplicity that made him good—Harry had no need to justify his actions because they never stemmed from complicated motives.

Emmett felt envy, and then nothing at all. He smiled, and raised his beer. Harry’s expression cleared, and he lifted his own.

“To moving on.”


	23. Chapter XXIII

_“They were sneering and negligent.”_

_i._

“You want to come clean?”

Grace put her phone on speaker and set it on the counter. She was chopping jalapenos to add to a fresh salsa—a risk, yes, since the Martinez’s abuela ordinarily had full purview of salsa-making—and waited a beat before answering.

“Come clean about what?”

Julia sounded irate. “Sneaky little—this is the thanks I get? I set you up on the first date you’ve had in probably five years, saving you from the life of an overworked old maid, and this is what you have to say? _Nada_? You’re gonna play it like this?”

Grace almost pinched the bridge of her nose, before remembering that that would be the equivalent of pepper-spraying herself. Literally. She eviscerated another hapless jalapeno. “Jules, it wasn’t like that it. I went out with Dan, and it was fine. We had a nice dinner. But there wasn’t a spark—it just didn’t stay with me, I guess. I didn’t think to say anything.”

“If you’d marry Emmett, all this crap would be finished. He’d loosen you _right_ up.”

Grace ignored whatever innuendo her sister was plotting. “Considering that I see him almost every single day, and am as uptight as I ever was, I don’t see how that plan is going to change things.”

Whatever barbed retort Julia was about to make, Grace jumped to interrupt. “And speaking of Emmett, he’s walking up my driveway right now so, maybe raincheck on the lecture?”

“Go ahead, girl.” Julia was all but cackling. “Get it!’

Grace hung up without another reply.

She was not going to rush to the door, so she called out, “It’s open, Em!” when he got close enough.

He stalked in, pouting magnificently. His hair was a little ruffled.

“You walked here? In those shoes?”

“Grace, I’m in _crisis_ , I couldn’t exactly worry about _shoes_.”

“Hmm. That would be a first.” Grace scraped the seeds and stems into the metal bowl she used for veggie scraps.

He quirked an irritable brow. “I came here for your _sympathy_ , Grace. You were never known for your sarcasm—don’t start now.”

“Don’t insult my sarcasm,” she said. But she scrubbed her hands off and sat down in one of the kitchen chairs, gesturing to another. “What’s wrong?”

Emmett slumped down, but with his usual cat-like grace, so that Grace had to remind herself not to stare at the casual sprawl of his long legs. “Mom just ruined my freaking life, but I can’t tell her about it or she’d feel bad.”

“Did she sign you up for a job?”

“Damn it, Grace! Hit me where it hurts!” He sighed dramatically.

Grace bit her lip. She hadn’t realized until now that that was a sore spot. Or maybe she had, but without recognizing the extent. She shouldn’t let Julia’s snark rub off on her. “Sorry. What did your mom do?”

“She RSVP’ed to the party from hell.” Emmett hung his head, pushing his hair off his forehead. He usually kept it contained to a genteel swoop, but he must have been rushing this morning because it was ruffled and almost curly. “A real Dante’s inferno, Grace. Probably we’ll enter the first circle with a soup course or some crappy hors-d’oeuvres. You know, those little…bacon-wrapped crab bites? But the bacon’s the texture of chewing gum? It’s vile.”

Grace was silent, thinking. Her eyes flickered to the basket of mail she kept on top of the refrigerator. “Do you mean…” she hesitated to say the names, but she had to. “Marnie and August’s housewarming party?”

“You too? Or should I say, _et tu_?” He mimed being stabbed.

“If Caesar was one-half the drama queen you are, it’s no wonder someone took a knife to him.” But she smiled as she said it, and strangely enough, it made Emmett laugh too.

“You sound like Julia when you get sassy. Is it the peppers? Adding a little _spice_ to Miss Caballero?”

“No, that’s just—I’m having dinner with the Martinezes tonight.” She held his gaze until he dropped his eyes first. Good. Grace forgave, but she didn’t forget. “Em, I wasn’t complicit in getting you invited to that party, and I wouldn’t have told you to go. Why does your mom want to?”

“She’s old-fashioned that way. Well, she’s thinks it’s kind of a crock that they’re living together, but, you know. She told me we had to go and welcome them. And she already told them we were coming.” He sighed again. “She seems excited about it, too, thinks I’m… _friends_ with them.” In any other context, Grace would have chalked his accompanying shudder up to further theatrics, but with Marnie—

“I wasn’t planning on going,” Grace said, slowly. “But…I’ll come and keep you company. If you want.”

He leaned across the table and grinned. It was half little-boy glee and half something that wasn’t boyish at all, and that made Grace curl her fingers tightly against her palms. “Oh, Grace. Why do you think I ruined a perfectly good pair of Oxfords to come here?”

Abuela Martinez agreed with Emmett’s dire assessment of the housewarming, divergent as the two of them might be in other respects. “Living together before they are married? Ahh!” She threw up her hands. “What is there to be warmed about that?”

“It’s just a welcome party,” Grace said. “They don’t know many people here, that’s true. But perhaps they’re planning the wedding here and want to put down roots.” It was hard to speak well, or even neutrally, of Marnie. “They are engaged, you know.”

Abuela clucked her tongue at this, unconvinced. “ _Las palabras se las lleva el viento._ ” She tapped her ring finger. “Call me when he puts two here. Two rings.”

“Abuela told me this morning that she wouldn’t go to the party even if she was invited,” Rosa said, when she walked Grace out to her car after dinner. “Like we would ever be invited to that kind of party. I think August Hawkins would rather sell our trailer out from under us and revoke our green cards.” She paused, toying with her dark braid, which was turned inkier by the half-light of dusk. “People are saying he wants to…”

“Buy the Fields?” Grace nodded. “He wants to. I wouldn’t ever do that, Rosa. You know that, right? The Fields belong to all of us.”

Rosa smiled. “That’s a relief. Your salsa was good, by the way. Abuela snuck seconds. Did you see?”

“If I say I did, you’ll have to kill me, right?” Grace laughed softly. “I’m sorry I haven’t been over as much lately.”

“You don’t have to tell me!” Rosa threw up her hands. The family resemblance was sharp but fleeting. “Planting season keeps us all tied down.”

Grace opened her card door, and Rosa looked like she was turning to go back in, but at the last second she turned back again, switching to English. “I bet Harry’s going to the party, right?”

Grace wasn’t sure how much use Marnie had for Harry, outside of using him to get to Emmett. But that wasn’t really what Rosa was asking. “I don’t know,” she said. “He’s doing OK, Rosa. Are you?”

Rosa glanced down. “I’m fine. It’s silly to miss him.”

“I’m not going to say it’s silly.” Grace spoke quietly, carefully. “If hearts are silly things, Rosa, we’re all to blame.”

Rosa bobbed her head in agreement. “Good night, Grace. _Gracias._ ”

_ii._

Emmett had not yet met August Hawkins. Though curiosity came as naturally to him as breathing, he had not been aching for opportunity.

“I hear he’s like, _really_ hot, and smart, and successful. Probably wears a Rolex…”

“He may wear a Rolex, Harry, but he probably talks about it, too, which ruins the effect.” Emmett clapped Harry on the shoulder. Mom, unexpectedly eager, had gone inside ahead of them and was already mingling. She could be sociable when she wanted to be. “Please, keep it together, man. August Hawkins is—just a dude. Who sells property. Which is the most boring business. You’re all up in people’s lives, sure, but it’s limited to like, the tiling in their bathroom. Very bleak.”

The house which Marnie and her fiancé had settled in was ablaze with light. They seriously had some kind of fairy-lights-on-steroids situation happening. Strands of them were looped over every banister.

“Wow.” Harry gaped up at them.

“Blinding,” Emmett drawled.

An intentionally imposing figure planted itself in their way. “You must be Emmett Woodhouse.”

He disliked August Hawkins at once. And yes, it _was_ premeditated, but most solid dislikes _were_. It was the way of the world. Emmett smiled, in his best and most superior fashion, and avoided saying, _And you are?_ by only a very narrow margin. “Thanks for the invitation. You have a lovely home.”

“Ah, but it’s not a home yet, is it? That’s what this party is for. To ensconce ourselves in the neighborhood. Do you know, by chance, the Sucklings?”

“Like the pig?” Harry had spoken. Emmett had _thought_ it, but that wasn’t the same thing at all.

August looked aghast. “Excuse me?”

“This is Harry. Protégé of Lucas Goddard,” Emmett said smoothly, before Harry could say anymore about _suckling pigs_.

August’s heavy lip curled. “Harry. Heard of you too.”

“Well, we all have reputations that proceed us,” Emmett said, glancing summarily at the gleaming Rolex on August’s wrist. “You must love Highbury, to buy a house here on such short notice.”

“I have my eye on greater things,” August announced grandly. He glanced across the wide room—it was a front hall, of sorts, and very drafty in the winter, Emmett was sure. “Where’s my wifey-to-be? She’ll want to say hello.”

Harry stiffened next to Emmett and Emmett took advantage of August’s momentary distraction to hurry away. Grace was in a corner, nibbling on some biscotti. She looked very pretty, but Emmett wasn’t going to say so in front of Harry.

“How is it?”

Grace grimaced. “Stale.”

“Isn’t that the point of biscotti? Just kidding.”

Harry had perked up at the mention of food. For the moment, Marnie was out of sight and mind. “I’ll go get us some grub,” he said, obviously forgetting Emmett’s hatred of that word. Emmett let it pass.

Emmett folded his arms over his chest. “So, this August guy is a colossal prick.”

Grace tugged at his elbow. “They don’t matter.”

He was conscious of her hand on his arm. “I thought you were the kind one, Grace.”

“Kindness isn’t about—”

“There she is.” August had come up beside them. Emmett would have killed him, if such a thing could be done with a glare and a foulard pocket square. (It couldn’t. He’d tried.) “Grace, have you noticed that your name sounds so much like the Spanish word for _thank you_? I should just call you Gracias. You bless us all.” He swanned away with a toothpaste grin; Lucas Goddard had caught his eye, and bankers were bankers.

“Emmett,” Grace said, low. “Please control yourself.”

“He just insulted you. I’m going to strangle him with my shoelace.”

“He doesn’t know he’s being insulting.” She patted his shoulder. “Except to you. He definitely is insulting you. But you do know why guys do that, right?”

He had insulted Jake Fairfax many times. He hoped she didn’t know why; he wasn’t sure why himself. “Why?” This, through gritted teeth.

“Because they’re insecure.”

_Damn it._

“Insecure?” He tried for nonchalant.

“Yeah. They feel lesser around someone, and they make up for it with a lot of immature posturing.” Grace shrugged. “Old news. The point is, August feels threatened by you. And he should.”

Emmett felt like _he_ would be the one out of air if she didn’t keep talking, keep telling him things he didn’t know about himself. “You think so?” Nonchalance was harder when oxygen felt very dear.

“Of course.” Grace suddenly wasn’t meeting his eyes. “You’re ten times the man he is.”

Emmett opened his mouth and shut it again. Harry stepped in between them with a plate of chocolate colored strawberries and two flutes of sparkling something balanced precariously in his hands. “Hungry?”

“Strawberries. Huh.” Grace took one and smirked. “I wonder if they’re mine.”

“Marnie looks really pretty,” Harry said, in an undertone. “I guess she must be really happy.”

Emmett scanned the room. Mom was talking to Arthur. Well, _that_ could last forever. “If she can be happy, with that chump.”

“You think he’s a chump?” Harry asked. “He was…pretty nice. I mean, he seems to know a lot about the world.”

“About _his_ world, at least,” Emmett said regally. He wondered, offhandedly, what Jake Fairfax would think of August. The thought that Jake Fairfax might see him as quite the same breed as Emmett was vexing in the extreme, but Jake Fairfax was home, pleading the cause to be one of his endless headaches.

At least Marnie had kept her distance from them, so far.

August guffawed loudly and raised a glass. “To our Highbury!” he shouted, and drank heartily, though the uniformity of the toast was somewhat scattered.

Emmett narrowed his eyes. _His_ Highbury indeed! It was all madness, and he had a feeling this was far from the last circle of Hell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Las palabras se las lleva el viento = basically means "actions speak louder than words"


	24. Chapter XXIV

_“I love an open temper.”_

_i._

The Hawkins-Elton contingency settled eagerly into Highbury life; more effectively, certainly, than Grace would have wished.

Social webs were thorny things. You never really knew how they were strung together until someone—or two someones, in the present case—charged in and tattered them to shreds.

 _Social climbers_ , Grace thought, more than once. She tried to chase the thought away for its lack of charity, but not for any lack of truth.

Having failed to establish an alliance between Augusta Realty and Caballero Fields—however that would even have _worked_ —August seemed to be scouting the town for new prospects. He wined and dined Lucas Goddard and the Coles and settled, at last, on Jake Fairfax.

“Poor Jake,” Emmett observed wryly, over dinner with Noel and Ashley.

Grace shot him a look. “Jake’s an adult. He can make his own decisions.” She herself had rather complex feelings about the burgeoning Jake-and-August friendship, but she wasn’t going to voice them to the present company.

It was Arthur’s doing, of course. Not out of any self-interest, of course—merely out of his inability to go more than half an hour without singing his nephew’s praises, and detailing his every glamorous accomplishment. Grace had a soft spot for Arthur—he’d been a knowledgeable apple farmer before his business went bust—but she wished he would be more discreet.

Still, last time she’d seen Jake—having coffee with a voluble August, who had declared himself a musical _force_ —he hadn’t seemed as abjectly miserable and gray-faced as he’d been earlier in the fall.

“I never minded Marnie,” Ashley said, scooping a frond of springy greens onto her plate. “And August is really enthusiastic about the community here.” She reached over and squeezed Noel’s hand. “I like how people want to come here, you know? Instead of leaving.”

Grace caught Emmett’s gaze as it flickered towards her. Was he thinking of her parents? She was.

“I’m afraid Emmett won’t share your sunny outlook, hon,” Noel said, smiling. “But Em, better Jake than you, right? Maybe opposites attract after all.”

“I’m fortunate to have missed his favor,” Emmett answered darkly, spearing his steak with energy. “Though I would have expected the high-and-mighty taste of Jake Fairfax to be a bit more readily offended.”

“He’s very patient,” Grace put in, feeling that it was her duty to stand up for Jake. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s able to see something…” She paused. It wasn’t her duty or her desire to stand up for August. “I’m sure he’s able to handle himself well, even with difficult people.”

Emmett was frowning. He set his fork down. “Well, we know how highly you think of Jake Fairfax.”

A silence fell. Ashley’s brow creased, but Noel looked like this was a conversation he’d had before.

Grace felt her face getting hot with confusion. But that was all it was—confusion, not some deeper sentiment. She didn’t have anything to hide—what was Emmett getting at? “I do think highly of Jake,” she answered calmly. “He’s a great guy.”

Emmett leaned back, all faux-nonchalance, but she could feel the tension practically radiating off him. “Sure that good opinion isn’t going to sneak up and surprise you someday?”

“Emmett,” Noel murmured. Being Noel, it was far from truly forceful.

Grace tilted her head. It was November. She had always tried to be more patient with Emmett in November. “I’m not interested in Jake Fairfax, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

Emmett drained his wineglass, avoiding her direct gaze. It was as though, having dashed off such a challenge, he did not know what to say next.

“I won’t be surprised by my feelings for anyone,” Grace said. She met their eyes each in turn—Noel and Ashley, who looked a bit sheepish, and Emmett, who looked strangely caught between cynicism and desperation. What had come over him? She felt the need to explain a little further. “I’ve been friends with Jake for years, you know that. I’m sorry to see him isolated. I wish we could welcome him more into our circle, but that doesn’t seem to be what he wants.”

Emmett murmured, “I wasn’t saying…”

“But you were wondering,” Grace said. She was suddenly stung, and self-conscious, for reasons that couldn’t be named or even extricated from one another. Hadn’t they made a pact to share such important details with each other? Or, if not a pact, just an agreement to be open?

There was something about Jake Fairfax that always struck a deep nerve with Emmett.

“He’s just so…perfect, like you,” Ashley interjected. Not helping, if the spark in Emmett’s eyes was to be judged.

“Nobody’s perfect,” Grace said. She would not sip her wine; she wouldn’t betray a dry throat like that. “Not even Jake Fairfax. He has flaws.”

“He does?”

Emmett had practically _yelped_ it. Grace stared at him in brief amazement, and searched her mind for a charitable answer that would nonetheless deflect—whatever the hell this all was. “He’s too reserved for me. He turns everything inward. I...am more drawn to outgoing people. People whose souls I can see more easily.” She looked sharply at Noel. “What are you smiling at?”

“Nothing,” he said, and changed the subject as abruptly as if he hadn’t let this last one linger for quite some time.

Not that Emmett seemed to care; Emmett, for one, seemed dazed for the remainder of the meal.

Ordinarily, Grace would have been almost angry with him. It wasn’t fair, to try to paint any sympathy with Jake in a romantic light. Just because Emmett was silly didn’t mean that the general narrative should be. But Emmett was always going to be Emmett, climbing every possible cliff just to leap off the edge.

And it _was_ November, after all.

_ii._

Just when he believed he’d found the proper knack of things, of being a reasonable human and not yappy little mongrel of a soul—

He ran his fingers through his hair and tugged. His mind was all in pieces because it was November already. November again. And he was back in Highbury, this time, and Mom had taken to sleeping late and staring out the window, pale and quiet.

All of which had been reason enough for him to try and rejuvenate his social life, having dinner with Ashley and Noel and coaxing Grace to come along.

And _then_ , of course, as Grace did, she had to make everything a moral challenge. She had to stand up for the insufferable Jake, _again_.

Why could Grace not leave Jake and August together to rot in their respective—and very distinctive—horrors?

But no, Grace had to sympathize _and_ support. Jake had to be praised, even when he was doing something as colossally idiotic as agreeing to spend one moment more than necessary in the company of August Hawkins.

Emmett, in the honesty of his own mind, could not attribute the same nobility to his own inquiry. Sure, yes. It was important for Grace to be made aware—among friends—that people might start talking soon.

Except…

People _weren’t_. Grace was discreet. Grace was a faithful friend to everyone. So maybe it _was_ all in Emmett’s head. And again, Emmett’s head and mind and maybe even heart were all in disarray.

More so than usual.

 _You know she isn’t in love with Jake. She would have told you. She_ promised _._

He’d been over it. He had. Until he dredged it up again like a hapless fool.

He couldn’t paint; his hands were shaking. November fifteenth was six days away.

“Mom?”

“What is it?”

She looked like she’d been reading, but she dropped the book dramatically when he came in. She wouldn’t want to hear what he wanted to tell her. He didn’t want to hear it himself, but when you were chained to dates and places and everything superficial like that, _like he was_ —

It had to be said.

“I’m going away for a long weekend,” he said. “I’m leaving Friday, and I won’t be back till late Sunday. Maybe Monday.”

She rounded her mouth in shock and just gaped at him for a moment. “Wh-why? On _this_ weekend? Baby, I don’t…that just…are you going to tell me that the Foundation is having _business_ meetings? Right at this time?”

He dug his hands into his pockets and steadied his breathing. “No, Mom. They have a fundraiser. It’s a memorial.”

Mom turned her head sharply towards the window again. She was trembling, but he didn’t believe it. That was the worst part. “I can’t believe _you_ want to go,” she said, almost sharply. It was unlike her to speak sharply to him.

It was unlike him to bring this up at all. He wondered if Grace remembered, if it had made her hold back whatever torrent of judgment he had undoubtedly deserved at dinner last night. “Ike used to go.” The words sounded faint and faraway, though he didn’t think he was speaking any differently than he normally did. “Since I’ve taken over, I should go.”

Mom looked back at him. “That’s why you went east, isn’t it? You were just tired of being here with me, and remembering _him_ , and so you didn’t go to Stanford like he always wanted you to. And now you’re going to go to a memorial gala? And shake hands with people who tell you that you look just like him? You do, you know.”

He had gone to college all the way across the country to test two theories: whether leaving was what he wanted, and whether anyone would miss him when he was gone.

Four years had failed to answer either question.

“I’m going to L.A.,” he said. It was the only subject that he treated in such a business-like matter with her. “Do you want anyone to come and stay with you?”

She reached for him, and he wrapped her hands in his, relenting a little. “It’s alright,” she said. “I’ll be alright.”

He’d call Noel to check in on her all the same. She’d appreciate that. He smiled up at her, the bright smile she loved, no matter how unhappy they were or pretended to be. “It’s settled,” he said. “And I’ll be back. I’ll plan the menu with Elyse, and I’ll be back. Always.”

He wandered his attic studio, staring into Grace’s eyes a dozen times from a dozen different angles. The second part of this plan—this duty—was much less certain.

He was going. He just didn’t know yet if he could make a go of it alone.

Emmett thought about all the ways he’d been an ass and an idiot, and prayed that Grace’s cool and structured memory had been uncharacteristically merciful to him, all these years.  

_All these years? You screwed everything up again just last night. Remember?_

He hadn’t thought this out well, poking her like that, right before he wanted to ask her. And in front of Noel and Ashley! Grace was a private person…he’d practically exposed her to the world.

Well, not the _world_ —but what if she saw it that way?

There was no time for further self-flagellation. He dialed her number.

“Hey, Emmett. What’s up?”

He had gone so long, when he was in school, without talking to her. He had let that distance grow like he didn’t need this. Again, he was an idiot and an ass, and something much lonelier still. “Grace, hi.”

“Hi.” She sounded like she was smiling. One of those elusive Grace-smiles, teasing at the corners but very soft in the eyes.

“I’m sorry. I was the worst.”

“When?”

She couldn’t see his eyeroll, but it was an epic one. “You’re going to pretend you don’t know? Last night. I shouldn’t have…assumed anything. Or asked.”

“I’m not angry,” Grace said. “But thank you for your apology.”

“Do you just think that apologies are good for me?”

“Absolutely.” Her voice was wholly sincere.

Damn it. She was always so…direct. “OK, well. Having…cast myself at your feet, begging forgiveness and all that shit—”

“You want a favor, don’t you?” He heard the sound of running water, the clatter of dishes. Imagined Grace in a t-shirt and jeans, with Paco leaning heavily against her leg, hands deep in soapsuds. It was an image colored by warmth.

“Yes. But it’s—” He was going to say that it wasn’t a stupid, petty favor. But maybe it was. Maybe he wasn’t capable of anything superior that. Hell, why did his self-esteem have to be such a rollercoaster? _At least it’s the best ride at any amusement park. So, there’s that._ “I have a fundraiser, this weekend. For…the Foundation. It’s a gala, actually. In L.A.”

“Oh.” He wondered if she’d put two and two together, regarding the date. “So you want me to check in on your mom?”

Emmett clenched the phone so hard he was almost sure he could feel the screen cracking. “No, actually. I wanted to know if you’d come with me.”


	25. Chapter XXV

_“Time will generally lessen the interest of every attachment not within the daily circle—but that is not the change I had in view for you.”_

_i._

He’d shown up at her house, crisp and flat-ironed as always, but with a crease in his forehead that wasn’t always there.

“Can I explain?”

“I already said yes,” Grace had answered, pouring two glasses of iced tea all the same.

“I have to go. I took over from Ike.” Like she didn’t know. Like he hadn’t done his duties to his family name, more diligently and more quietly than he did almost anything else.

Keeping silent on this, Grace had nodded, sipped. “Of course.” She’d watched his finger follow a beaded drop of condensation sliding down the smooth edge of his glass. Emmett was always moving, even when he made her world stand still.

“You won’t ask,” he’d said at last. “About—you won’t ask. That’s why I wanted you to come.”

Grace had permitted herself a liberty she didn’t, very often. She had reached out and covered his hand with hers.

So yes, she had agreed, and now the days were ticking on and Emmett’s freneticism had taken a more cheerful, typical turn. “We can stop by Ike and Julia’s on the way,” he suggested eagerly, on Thursday, over the phone. “They’re at the halfway mark. Spend Friday night with them. Would you like that?”

Grace would like to see Julia, although she was less keen on being seen _by_ Julia, in the company of Emmett. She blushed at the prospect of it, but fortunately Emmett couldn’t see her face. “Yes, that sounds nice.” He’d caught her, he really had. Always, she put these things off—the things that were for her. Her dreams, her longings. The simple wish, above any other, to go _home_. It was a harder thing to do when everyone still thought that you _were_ home.

“Fantastic. I’ll text Ike. He’ll be delighted. He’s _always_ delighted by anything I do.”

Grace smiled at this utterly unnecessary addendum. “That’s settled, then.”

“The gala is Saturday,” Emmett continued, speaking quickly. It was strange to think that she’d spent four years barely hearing his voice. Not…staying connected, for whatever reason. It wasn’t because she hadn’t cared. It was never that. “You’re sure—I mean, I could go to that alo—”

She didn’t even let him finish that thought. This _was_ why Grace had put aside the bookkeeping and gone over every detail with her senior-most employees. Emmett needed someone to be with him when he had to hear his father’s name and memory brought up time and time and time again. Emmett needed _her_. “I’m happy to,” she said. “Although, I don’t have anything to wear.”

For the first time, Emmett paused for a good long moment. Finally: “What about that white dress? That you wore to the party Mom and I had for Noel?”

How, how could he remember so rightly and wrongly at the same time? “Emmett, that’s a sundress.”

“Oh. I’ll buy you something. If you want.”

“No…I’ll find something. I was being silly. I still have my bridesmaid’s dress from Julia’s wedding, if it fits.” She wondered if he would think it was too plain. Of course, a moment ago, he’d thought a sundress perfectly appropriate.

“You’ll look perfect.” Emmett tossed the words off airily, and then moved on as if they hadn’t mattered at all. “I’ll pick you up tomorrow afternoon. Will that be enough time to get your books in order?”

Grace bit her lip, tugging at the smile that kept appearing. “My books are always in order.”

She had never been on a proper road-trip before, as a grown-up. There was something cinematic about it, but Grace was not inclined to describe things in fanciful terms, so the poetry of it all had to be contained to the way the golden dust spun up under the wheels of Emmett’s car when he drove up to her doorstep on Friday afternoon.

Grace had packed one suitcase. The bridesmaid’s dress folded in the bottom, and other simple and sensible clothes laid carefully on top.

Emmett had three suitcases and a briefcase.

“Did you bring your entire wardrobe?” she inquired, and his eyebrows lifted above his mirrored sunglasses.

“Have you even _seen_ the extent of my wardrobe, Grace?”

“A long time ago,” she said, and this time she let herself smile when he could see her. He grinned back and they drove away. It didn’t feel like leaving anything behind.

He talked while he drove. All about Harry’s latest adventures at the bank—which Grace imagined were more entertaining coming from Emmett than from the original source—and how his Mom had discovered _WebMD_ and was probably going to diagnose herself with the bubonic plague one of these days. He said it fondly.

He said nothing about his father.

Alan Woodhouse had been tall and kind and handsome, fifteen years older than his wife and far, far richer. She’d gotten used to the wealth and he had been happy to let her. Grace had understood this, even at twelve.

Also when Grace was twelve, Alan Woodhouse was diagnosed with brain cancer. Three months later, he was gone.

Emmett had changed, and changed back again. Sometimes Grace thought it was more telling, when someone hid behind the act of remaining staunchly, savagely _the same_.

She stole a glance at him in profile. The sun was setting. The light fanned around his fine-boned features and his hair in an incandescent glow.

“Am I talking too much?”

“No.”

There were times, like now, when she saw him relax and realized that she hadn’t noticed the preceding tension. “You were so quiet.”

“I am a quiet person,” Grace observed. She smoothed the pad of her thumb across the gloss of her nails, freshly polished in anticipation of Julia’s eagle-eye.

“You know,” Emmett said, “They say that opposites attr—that people always enjoy what is different from them, and so quiet people must like talkative people. But if I were a quiet person—which I know I am not—I think I’d hate anyone who just couldn’t shut the hell up.” He paused, overcome by what Grace assumed was rare self-awareness. “Ugh. Maybe that’s what Jake’s problem is.”

Grace chose not to address that facet of the issue.  “I don’t think that’s necessarily true. I mean, it’s impossible to separate ourselves completely from what we already are. You love the spotlight, so even when you try to imagine yourself…not that way, it’s still creeping in.”

He glanced at her over the top of his sunglasses. “You would run into a similar problem if you tried to imagine yourself foolish.”

“I’ll take the labyrinthine compliment,” Grace murmured, and that made Emmett laugh.

“I’m sorry,” he said, after a moment.

“Sorry?” Grace’s breath caught in her throat for no reason.

There was something steadying about the sight of Emmett’s tanned hand resting on the wheel. He cleared his throat. “For not staying in touch when I was away.”

Grace tucked her lower lip between her teeth.  When she answered, she had to blink away a little sting in her eyes. “It was my fault just as much.”

“Nothing,” said Emmett, with perfect conviction, “is ever your fault.”

“That can’t be true.”

“Can’t it?” He grinned, which meant that she couldn’t really tell if he was serious. “We live in improbable times. And I’m an artist, after all. We strive for ultimate perfection.”

“Art isn’t about perfection,” Grace argued, momentarily diverted. “Art is about the soul.” She realized, belatedly, that _she_ was not the artist, and would have thought it unfair for Emmett to correct her on the finer details of strawberry planting. But Emmett seemed enthused, not offended.

“Really?” He tapped the wheel with two fingers. “Fascinating. Oh, Grace. I lack all depth, you see. A bit of talent can’t make up for that. I have to outsource my depth.”

“To me.”

“Naturally.” She couldn’t see his eyes, so, again, gravity had to be left to tone alone. “You’re the deepest person I know.”

_ii._

They arrived in Bakersfield—where Ike and Julia lived—at eight o’clock, which was an hour after Emmett had apparently insulted Grace by telling her that she was the deepest person he knew.

She had been silent for a few minutes, looking at her lap, and then she had resumed pleasant conversation. _He_ had been momentarily mortified and then recovered.

In Emmett’s experience, Grace was easily offended—but she matched that sensitivity with poised good manners in the wake of any perceived slight. Again, evidence of the perfection she objected to.

“You picked the worst time to come,” was Julia’s greeting, but her dark eyes snapped between them as if she was well pleased to see them after all. “We’re remodeling the guest bedroom, so someone is going to have to take the couch.”

Her glance implied that Emmett should take it. He was insulted, because he had been _about to offer_ —but that was Julia. Always beating him to the punch. He smiled gallantly at her with his lips and daggered her with his eyes. She returned the favor, but pulled him into a hug all the same.

“Robin’s egg blue,” Ike interjected mildly. “For the bedroom.” They were always remodeling something, which must be more to Julia’s credit than Ike’s. Ike would have lived in the same five-mile radius all his life, commiserating over imagined troubles with Mom, if he’d had his way.

But Ike wasn’t insistent. That was Mom’s province, and Emmett’s.

“Thank you so much for having us,” Grace was saying, while Emmett’s thoughts ran amok. “How’s Eddie doing?”

“Crawling.” Julia sighed profoundly. “Crawling everywhere.”

“I can’t wait to see him,” Emmett said, surprising himself a little, though it was no secret that he loved his nephew. “I’d also love dinner.”

“Straight to the point as always,” Julia retorted, rolling her eyes.

“Come in,” Ike said. “We’ve got some great steaks.”

That meant someone else had grilled them. Emmett shouldered Grace’s bag and took one of his own as well.

He hadn’t come here often. He had still been in college when Ike and Julia moved to Bakersfield, just after the wedding. In the recent months, he’d made his trips to L.A. by plane. Emmett was not fond of new places; he had been terribly homesick the first few months of college, though even Noel hadn’t really known the extent of it.

Grace turned her head and smiled encouragingly. He felt his ears grow hot, wondering how she possibly could have known what he was thinking.

A moment later, he decided that he had read too much into her expression.

“So,” Grace said, over dinner, “Is this a new recipe?”

“Ask the chef,” Julia answered. “Who went home already, so…sorry. Ask her tomorrow. Ike’s idea, not mine. She’s good at it, I guess. A bit too talkative.”

“Can there only be one?” Emmett said, and Julia glared at him.

“Oh, go on with _that_. I dare you.” As if in revenge, she turned to Grace. “And what are you two up to this weekend?”

Emmett felt that further explanation beyond _a business trip_ would make him drop through the floor. Ike looked at him quickly, but that was all.

Grace stepped in. There was something going on between her and Julia, but Emmett was damned if he could figure it out. “I needed a break,” she said. “And it worked out well, _this weekend_.”

Ah. There it was. Grace could shut people down when she needed to. Emmett was almost abjectly grateful.

Julia dropped that angle of the subject. “I hear there’s a gala,” she said, sipping her wine. Eddie prodded his carrot mash with a fat finger beside her. Emmett wondered how he’d like the steak, but he assumed that steak was a no-go for babies.

Grace would know. He wasn’t going to ask her in front of Julia.

“Yes,” Grace answered her sister, calmly spreading butter on a piece of bread.

“What are you wearing?” Julia’s eyes sparkled.

Grace finished buttering the bread without saying any more. Emmett could have kicked himself; he really should have bought her something. He should have known—Grace never spent much money on herself. She was too frugal.

“Well?”

“My bridesmaid’s dress from your wedding,” Grace said at last, meeting her sister’s gaze. When Grace glared, it was kind of…electrifying. “I thought you’d approve, since, you know, it’s your taste.”

Julia rolled her eyes dramatically. “Girl, no. That is the worst idea I’ve ever heard of. Em, are you for real? You’re going roll up in Tom Ford or something and have her wearing David’s Bridal?”

“Damn,” Emmett quipped. “I can’t believe you went to David’s Bridal.”

Julia ignored him. “Grace, you _cannot_. I have something that doesn’t fit me anymore, not with the baby fat.”

“You don’t have baby fat,” Ike put in dutifully.

“You know that I do,” Julia shot back grimly, and then returned to heckling Grace. “It’s dazzling. You’ll look amazing.” She winked, significantly, and Grace looked suddenly, deeply embarrassed.

Emmett was having more difficulty than usual understanding Grace tonight.

After dinner, they sat on the patio (recently remodeled, as Julia proudly showed them), and drank more wine. Emmett balanced Eddie on his lap, one hand behind his back, and made faces at him. Eddie enjoyed this.

So, seemingly, did Grace. She kept looking at them, almost furtively, and Emmett caught her eyes once and smiled.

She smiled back.

Julia crossed one leg over the other and let Ike hold her hand. “Mom thinks you’re never visiting them again.”

Emmett saw Grace’s shoulders tighten a little. “I’m going to spend Christmas with them.”

Julia shrugged. “Just passing on the worries. I know it’s crap. What would they do if you weren’t running their business? Although I guess it’s your business now.”

“I guess so.” Grace pushed her hair behind her ear. Emmett, still dazed from the realization that Grace wouldn’t be in Highbury for Christmas, reminded himself that he’d made it through four Christmases without her and could do so once again.  

Before they went to bed, Julia dragged a reluctant Grace away to go closet-shopping and Ike and Emmett faced each other in the kitchen. Emmett was still holding Eddie, who was drooling sleepily on his shoulder. For Eddie, Emmett would allow such an imposition.

Ike’s forehead crinkled. “You going to be OK?”

He’d been expecting this. Ike had been surprisingly quiet throughout the evening, and Emmett should be grateful, but he was always snappish around this particular issue instead. “I’ve been keeping it together pretty well, haven’t I?”

“I mean tomorrow. With people…talking.”

Emmett said nothing.

“About Dad,” Ike supplied, because he was dense like that.

“Obviously,” Emmett snapped. Damn it. He’d meant to not do the snapping thing, and here he was, doing it _always_. “I’ll be fine. It was a long time ago.” That had never made a difference, and both he and Ike knew it.

“We don’t miss him like you do,” Ike said, shaking his head. “Me and Mom. Was that the problem?”

It was, and it wasn’t.  Emmett pressed his lips against Eddie’s downy head so he wouldn’t have to answer immediately, or ever.

“He’d be an old man now,” Ike sighed. It was like the dam was open and this was exactly why it had been a risk, coming here at all. Emmett could feel his patience thinning by the minute. Where the hell was Grace? “It still feels like yesterday—”

“Can you stop? Please?” The ‘please’ was added only with an effort.

Ike pressed his lips together and nodded. Grace and Julia chose that moment to rejoin them. Julia took Eddie out of Emmett’s arms.

“Someone’s tired,” she said, rocking him. “Say goodnight to your aunt and uncle!”

Somehow that made it sound like they were married. Emmett might have teased Grace about it, except that he was still pissed off at Ike.

At least Ike had had the good sense to get a comfortable couch. He lay there, later that night, with one arm thrown over his eyes. Why had he wanted to stop here at all, and give Ike the opportunity to be awkward and… _supportive_? Driving through this area wasn’t great at this time of year anyway, what with the bouts of tule fog. They’d been lucky to have such a clear trip down.

But why did he always throw himself into the places that he didn’t want to be?

Grace would call it a test of character development, or something. He tossed and turned, and fell asleep at last.

When he opened his eyes, it was still shadowy and dark, but a footstep had awoken him. He saw Grace, in a loose t-shirt and shorts, with a glass of water in hand. She had stopped at the foot of the couch. The window behind him shed enough light on her face to show a sort of softness he didn’t believe he’d seen there before.

When she saw that he was awake, she jumped. “I’m sorry!” she whispered. The water sloshed in her glass. “I was thirsty. I didn’t meant to wake you up.”

His lips parted. They were dry. He could use a glass of water himself, but that would be silly to say, because, being Grace, she’d go get it for him. He didn’t want to make her go back to the kitchen. “It’s OK. I’m a light sleeper.” That was only sometimes true.

“OK.” She smiled. He searched hard for that secret softness, but she had hidden it well away. “Goodnight, Em.”


	26. Chapter XXVI

_“What I said just now, meant nothing.”_

_i._

Grace had expected Emmett to sleep in. He had talked of an early start, of course, but Emmett talked of lots of things. She was surprised, then, to find him drinking coffee and reading _Vogue_ , at half-past seven.

“ _Vogue_?”

“Good morning, Grace.” He smiled beatifically, shifting to a lean of greater nonchalance against the edge of the countertop. “It was this or the _New York Times_ , which, frankly, is boring as shit.”

“I’ll make sure to save my old _Cosmos_ for you,” Julia interjected, stomping in. Julia, at least, had not become a morning person since her departure from Highbury.

“Can I help make breakfast?” Grace asked. It might help the mood if she could make herself useful. Julia’s kitchen was nothing like the one they’d known at home; Grace had a feeling that the steak-chef of the night before was a common occurrence, and everything was accordingly organized for a stranger’s touch.

“Yeah, there’s eggs and yogurt and all that stuff.” Julia waved a dismissive hand.

“Nicole Kidman should go back to being a redhead,” Emmett mused. “Blonde washes her out.”

Julia glowered at him. “What time are you leaving? Not you, Grace. I’ll miss _you_.”

“Eight,” Emmett said, with a perfunctory glance at his watch. “We’ll have lunch in L.A.”

The _we_ seemed to work a change on Julia. It was a change with which Grace was all too familiar. She felt her cheeks getting hot. It was—for the best that Emmett had not been privy to the after-dinner conversation between the sisters.

 _“About time you had a honeymoon_ ,” Julia had said, grinning slyly. _“Why didn’t you invite me to the wedding?”_

Julia would never be serious about serious matters. At least, not aloud. Grace toasted some bread and listened to Emmett parry fashion opinions with Julia.

 _“Pink?_ ” She’d stared disbelievingly at the dress Julia had held up in front of her. “ _I don’t…do pink.”_

Julia had lifted the maddening shoulder of older-sisterhood. “ _Surprise him._ ”

Eddie woke up to join in the goodbyes, smiling near-toothlessly. Grace kissed his round head and hugged Ike. When she said goodbye to Julia, Julia whispered, “Don’t forget to kiss _him_. On the mouth.”

Grace pushed her away.

“Did you have a good time?” Emmett asked, as they drove away. He had his sunglasses pushed up on his forehead for the moment, so Grace could see his eyes. He looked concerned, but he was smiling.

There were freckles across the bridge of his nose. She had always known this, but she always noticed all the same. “I did.” She wasn’t going to complain. Julia’s prying had been…foreseeable. “Thanks for suggesting this. I don’t get to see them a lot.”

He nodded. “Do you think Eddie looks like me?”

Grace bit her lip. “Um…well, he is your nephew. I mean, I think he looks more like Julia, but I’m biased.”

“Fair. He’s not my child.” Emmett sighed. “I’d like a legacy, though, you know?”

“To carry on your good looks?” It was out before she could help herself.

Emmett’s lips twitched into a grin she couldn’t quite read. “Well. That. But also…it would be nice to have little people running around who thought you were perfect, wouldn’t it?”

He was so—naïve. Grace tilted her head back. The sun was beginning to glare, but Emmett had yet to lower his sunglasses. “I’m afraid that children generally don’t think their parents are perfect, Em. Quite the opposite.”

“ _I_ did.” It wasn’t sharp, but it was pointed. Grace sucked in a breath. She had assumed too much, and forgotten the rest.

Of course Emmett had thought his father was perfect. And no one could say when that would have changed, because there hadn’t been time for a change.

“But in general,” he amended, his tone light and carefree once more, “I think you’re right.”

It had been a long time since Grace had been to L.A. Emmett, however, was undaunted—he checked them into their hotel while Grace tried not estimate the cost of the surrounding grandeur, and presented the suite of rooms to her with boyish glee. “I thought this would be easier than just having rooms next to each other,” he explained, gesturing around the two-bedroom suite. “Is it alright?”

“It’s beautiful.” Grace took in gilt and ivory and tried not to think about Julia’s honeymoon comment. “Thanks so much.”

He shot her a quizzical glance. “You keep thanking me. You don’t have to.”

“I don’t know what else to say.”

“Well.” Emmett’s ears were a little red. “It’s really fine. I don’t mind at all. You’re the one doing _me_ the favor.”

She repeated _that_ to herself like a mantra that evening, when she had shut herself in her bedroom and unwound the dress Julia had lent her from the garment bag. The dress shimmered in dusty rose, and it was ten times less sensible than anything Grace had worn since she was—sixteen?

(And even then. At sixteen she had been gawky and owlish and not at all prone to wearing pink.)

Emmett had had meetings running through dinner in the hotel’s conference rooms, and Grace had assured him (and assured him again) that she would meet him downstairs at eight-thirty, when the gala itself started. At nine, there would be a memorial for Alan Woodhouse.

He hadn’t even mentioned his father since that brief, almost-moment in the car.

Grace slipped into the dress. It fit well, zipping up with only a couple contortions. She and Julia were similar in size—still were, for all Julia’s postpartum complaints. The only worrying thing was that the dress had a sweetheart neckline—not too revealing, but more dramatic than the simple designs Grace usually wore.

Damn it all, this _sparkled_.

She pulled her hair back; she slipped in pearl earrings; she added the barest touch of blush to her cheeks.

In heels, she felt too tall.

_You’re not here for you._

Grace started down the stairs.

It was—of course—one of those sweeping staircases, with a carved balustrade and a fan of lushly carpeted steps. Grace wasn’t a cold-hearted pragmatist. She’d seen the movies. But she reminded herself that the girls in movies didn’t look like her, and suited their glittering gowns much better than she suited hers.

There was an elegant throng gathered at the bottom of the stairs, trickling out of the ballroom, but Grace could always find Emmett in any crowd.

He was waiting for her.

She waved. He started towards her, and stopped.

“Grace, I…” It was unlike him to stand, lips parted, as if he had been turned to stone. But warm stone; he took her hand and slipped it around his arm, and Grace reminded herself yet again that she was here to support him. To stand by his side.

She wanted—

In one of the long, ballroom mirrors, she saw herself, a little pale above the flowing glow of the gown. She saw…just _Grace_ , dressed up a little more than usual. Emmett had looked like he was seeing something else—someone else.

She just couldn’t be certain that it was her.

_ii._

He didn’t know why, but he could never seem to get used to Grace. One moment she surprised him by leaving her work and coming with him at all, and the next—

He’d never seen Grace like this.

Or maybe he _had_ , and that was the source of all his current trouble.

She looked beautiful. That was fair to say. He was an artist—he stopped, remembering that he had used the same argument for Francesca.

(When Emmett was sixteen, and Grace started college, he had decided that he wanted to kiss her. And then he just—didn’t. It was better that way. It would have been the most terrible mistake of his life, and he had never regretted his last-minute cowardice.)

(Never.)

He wasn’t—he wasn’t even going to think about _romance_ , that was foolish. It was something else. The magic and wonder of Grace, who was so much more than he was, in all the ways that mattered.

“Are you OK?”

He blinked down at the rose-colored sequins, but Grace’s eyes were as calm and steady as ever.

“What?”

“You were being quiet.” She spoke in an undertone, so that only he could hear. “I just wanted to make sure all of this wasn’t getting to you.”

It all came rushing back. He lifted his head and faced the framed portrait that he’d passed by half-a-dozen times today, all without looking at it closely.

His dad looked exactly like he remembered.

“Yeah,” he said. “I’m fine.”

“I’ll stay with you,” she murmured. “Just let me know what you need.”

He snagged a couple flutes of champagne off a passing tray. “Here. Take the edge off.”

She sipped; he drained it. He saw one of her eyebrows go up. “It’s just one glass.”

But the evening became a blur anyway. He didn’t want to hold her arm too tightly; she might push him away. They ate and drank and after people had said a good deal about his father and the family charity, it was his turn to stand up.

He wasn’t drunk. He just felt that way; light-headed and distant, somewhere in a green summer that had been the very last.

He found Grace’s gaze in the crowd.

Thank God that Grace’s eyes were always the same.

“My father was born wealthy,” Emmett heard his own voice say. It was as though Grace was drawing it out of him. No one else was there at all. “He recognized what a tremendous privilege that was, and he worked tirelessly to share some of that privilege with others. He started our foundation to provide for the less fortunate, with an especial focus on fine arts education. This year, our annual gala has fallen on the anniversary…” He was sure his voice would sputter out like a doused flame, but it didn’t, and that was somehow worse. “The anniversary of his death. I’m even more privileged than he was, because I knew him as a father as well as a leader. He left a legacy, and I’m honored to carry that on in a particular way this evening. Please—enjoy yourselves. That’s how he would have wanted it.”

Something in him staggered on the way back to his seat, but it wasn’t his step; he moved smoothly, as though it had all meant nothing.

Grace’s hand closed around his. Emmett sat down beside her. She was smiling, but everything was fuzzy at the edges. He wondered, in a clenched fist of panic, if there were tears in his eyes.

“That was so beautiful, Emmett.”

“Was it?” He would have crawled out of his own skin if he could. “I’m just glad it’s over.”

The string quartet was playing. It might have been wasps buzzing, for all Emmett noticed. But Grace stood up.

“Let’s dance,” she said. “That way you only have to look at me.”

The idea seemed better than any other; it would keep at bay the swarm of handshakes and decades-late condolences that would flood in otherwise.

Emmett stood up and followed her out to the floor. A tray of drinks passed by, but he’d wait on that, for the moment.

She must be wearing very high heels; usually, she had to lean much farther back to look him in the eye. Then again, they weren’t often this close.

“This is a waltz,” he said.

Grace’s lips curved. “I know.”

He settled his hand at her waist. A pulse jumped against his wrist. It could have been his or hers. He found himself fascinated by it.

She smelled like roses. He stumbled out, “You look gorgeous,” and regretted _that_ immediately. These words, this night—it all just kept coming. “I’ve never seen you wear this color.”

Her cheeks were the color of her dress. “I don’t usually wear pink.”

“It makes you look…well, you always look perfect.” He’d called her perfect on the drive down, too. He was running out of words to tell Grace that she was better than he could ever be. “But this is really something.”

She smiled, but her eyes were pained. “Em, you don’t have to stay this whole time, do you?” She squeezed his shoulder. “You’re shaking.”

He bit down on the inside of his mouth. “Just nerves.” It wasn’t. “I need another drink.”

Grace shook her head quickly. “No, you don’t.”

Maybe she didn’t understand, not completely. It wasn’t like anyone did. He tried for a deep breath. The tray was coming around again. Before she could protest further, he downed another drink. It was something stronger than champagne. “Like I said. Takes the edge right off.”

Grace said nothing.

More blurring. In between, Grace made him sit down. And later, after he was fairly sure she had forced a glass out of his hand, they went up to their rooms. They took the elevator, not the stairs. That staircase couldn’t belong to him, not like this. He was aware of _that_ very clearly, even if he was aware of nothing else.

Grace helped him out of his jacket. She had taken off her heels at the door of their suite and she was, again, so much shorter than him.

“Yes, Emmett, you’re very tall,” she agreed flatly, and he realized that he’d said it aloud.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I made a fool of myself.” It sounded right in his head; he thought it came out a bit slurred.

“Nobody saw.” Grace sounded firm, even though she wasn’t looking at him. “I made sure.”

She handed him a glass of water and he drank it. She slipped out the knot of his bowtie and hung up his jacket.

Emmett watched her, sagged against the doorway of his room, and felt the ache of years hitch its way up through his ribs. He was just drunk enough that he was pretty sure he’d forget this in the morning. Or at least, he could pretend that he had. “Grace,” he asked, “Are we supposed to be in love?”


	27. Chapter XXVII

_“A little occupied in weighing her own feelings, and trying to understand the degree of her agitation.”_

_i._

The drive to Santa Barbara was two hours. The clouds were silver and gold, water-color rippled, leaving barely a trace of sky to be seen. A detour, certainly, hugging the coastline like that, and maybe Grace would have questioned it on a different occasion.

As it was, the morning had been a quiet one. Emmett was still and silent in the passenger seat beside her, sunglasses on. But he was the only reason that they stopped in Santa Barbara at all. When Grace came out of the gas-station after paying to fill up, she found him leaning against the driver’s side, arms folded across his chest.

“You up for driving?” she asked, trying not to sound cautious. He was pale today, but hadn’t complained of a headache.

“Yeah,” he said. “There’s somewhere I want to go.”

Grace nodded, and Emmett drove them to the beach.

_“Are we supposed to be in love?”_

_She’s not ready for this, she has thought about this too many times to ever be ready for it, and her heart is beating out of her chest and—_

_He won’t remember a thing. It’s bitter, only because it’s true._

_Grace laces her fingers together; she needs something to do with her hands._

_He hasn’t stopped looking at her. All she can think is,_ he sees me _, and it rolls over her, over the room, because it’s_ true _._

The sand was ribbed smooth by the tide. Below them, the waves chased each other in a flurry of sleek current and foam. Grace remembered all the times she’d sought something like solace, coming alone to whatever water she could find, and did not sigh.

“It’s practically the same all year round,” Emmett said, as if that was important. “More clouds, now.”

“It’s beautiful,” Grace said, because the ocean always was.

They stood side by side. Grace was wearing sandals. Emmett’s wingtips would probably be ruined.

“Some people don’t love their parents.” Emmett switched topics like playing cards, sharp-edged and flying. “You know?”

“Yes.” This wasn’t what was on Grace’s mind, but that didn’t matter.

He wasn’t looking at her. He was looking at the sky. And Grace wished she could only see that he was hungover and tired, but all she kept thinking was, _he’s young. Still so young._ Emmett said, a little hoarsely, “I was a kid—a _kid_ —and I loved him like I was _fucking_ supposed to. And he’s still gone.” He flung a hand outwards, this time with no words to follow it.

Grace waited.

_He stumbles, there in the doorway, and she moves forward to catch him, to steady him, as if it that isn’t the most dangerous move of all. Her hands are on his shoulders. He smells like alcohol and all the things that make him familiar._

_She_ wants _—_

_“You’re drunk, Emmett.”_

_“Why does that matter?”_

_Grace searches, even if she doesn’t find. “Because this isn’t you.”_

_He sighs, and his chin drops down, but then he looks at her through his lashes and Grace is shaking, trembling, and somehow standing very still. “Maybe not,” he whispers. “But it’s_ you. _”_

Emmett sounded angry. It was enough to stretch from horizon to horizon, like the cloud cover, or like Grace’s nerves. “He sat us all down, you know? They already knew. Mom, and Ike. He sat us all down because he needed to tell _me_.” He shook his head, lower lip between his teeth. “He didn’t even look sick yet. And Mom cried, because she couldn’t think about anything else but—what she was losing. And there we both were, comforting Mom, and comforting Ike, because he was going batshit too, and I looked him—I looked Dad in the eyes and I never—I never got to hear what he wanted to tell me. Just me. It was like we were waiting for a moment when they wouldn’t be there, and it would just be the two of us. And—”

Grace wanted to hold him, but she couldn’t.

Emmett squinted at the water. “He wanted me to be more. They didn’t. And I let them.” A jumble of phrases, and pain, that only made sense to Grace because she’d known him—and them—all her life.

“You were a kid.” Grace felt the words leaving her lips and hoped they were what he needed. “You weren’t responsible for raising yourself. Or for…fixing your family. Especially with—what you all went through.”

“He loved me because he thought I wasn’t like them,” Emmett said. He turned, and the full blast of his gaze struck Grace hard. “But he loved them, too.”

“So…you’re worried he wouldn’t—that you turned out—”

“They can’t help themselves,” Emmett interrupted. “Mom, Ike. They live such tiny lives. They have to. I knew _that_ when we all sat down that day. And he was—he was different and I knew I was supposed to grow up to be like him, after he was—. But I didn’t. I don’t know where that leaves me. I don’t know—I still don’t understand why it was his time to leave at all.”

It wouldn’t help, at the moment, to talk about God, Grace supposed. Emmett was not religious. “When you love someone,” she began, and she did touch him now, just a hand on his arm, because it seemed like the right thing to do, “You don’t stop just because they’re not who they thought you would be. You’ve always—you’re every bit the ten-year-old he loved, Emmet. And so much more than that. Is that what you’re worried about?”

Was it love that he didn’t understand?

_Are we supposed to be in love?_

_(She never answers the question.)_

Emmett let out a long breath. “I’m worried about everything,” he said. “It’s stupid, being stuck. All—fractured in the past.” He shifted, lips pursing, like he had already said too much. “I won’t speak of it again, I promise. I’ll be stoic and steady…just like you.”

“Maybe I’m only stoic because I haven’t had anything so difficult happen,” Grace suggested, gently. He had taken so many turns, left so much unexplained, but she was following. If she just kept her eyes on him, she wouldn’t falter. At least not in the light of day.

_This isn’t you._

_Maybe not. But it’s_ you.

Emmett frowned. “I—”

“It’s alright, you don’t have to explain.” Grace smiled up at him, trying for _comforting_. “Sadness doesn’t fit you, because you were made to be happy.”

Up, down—a long blink. “But I’m not?”

Grace’s chest grew tight. “Today, or just…in general?”

_ii._

Emmett almost said, _whenever you’re not here_ , but he wasn’t a fool. Any girl would take that as a declaration of love or something stupid like that, even a girl like Grace. And he wasn’t—that was the farthest thing from what he was trying to say.

Last night was hazy. He’d had too much to drink. Grace had been too beautiful. He’d probably hit on her, loosened up by all the dissociation that alcohol could bring. It hadn’t meant—he hoped she didn’t—

She didn’t seem uncomfortable at the moment, thank God. Just full of pity, or something, and being the pathetic ass he was, he lapped it up.

But he’d gone too far already, and couldn’t—wouldn’t—make himself go farther. Grace didn’t need to hear him talk about Dad, gone thin and gray and hollow-cheeked. Didn’t need to know that Emmett had held onto him, after, until the body had gone cold.

“We can go now,” he said. Another wave crashed below them. “Thanks, Grace.”

She held his hand back to the car. He tried to remember what he’d said last night.

God help him, he hoped he hadn’t said anything he shouldn’t have.

They arrived back in Highbury in the late afternoon. The conversation had grown more natural again, even if such a progression left Emmett all the more indebted to Grace. She was always doing things for him. Not the sort of things that Mom or Ike or Noel had spent the past decade doing—not showering him with presents and praise. But in this trip, Grace had been…invaluable.

_Are we supposed to be in love?_

He almost jammed on the brakes.

Wait. He hadn’t—he hadn’t _really_ said that, had he? And only to remember it _now_ , when they were practically at Grace’s door?

_You’re an idiot._

Of course they weren’t supposed to be in love! That was the whole point of it. From what he understood, had observed, and had even _orchestrated_ , people found each other quite naturally. Nobody attuned to reality could be left in question! Nobody would ever ask it like _that_ , if what they were asking was true. But he _had_ been drunk, and maudlin, and crushed by all the things that he never spoke of in Highbury—

—To be sure, he had thought he’d never speak of them to anyone again, but something about Grace had made it all possible.

He couldn’t apologize for asking a foolish question that had been prompted by confused, intoxicated emotions. It would call attention to it and make it seem like it had been on his mind. Which it now _was_ , but that was to be suffered in silence. Emmett ground his teeth.

“We’re here,” Grace said calmly.

He cursed inwardly and turned down the drive of Caballero Fields. When she got out of the car, he did too, helping her with her (ridiculously) conservative luggage. Seriously, she’d packed almost nothing.

“Thank you for inviting me,” Grace said.

As if he had done _her_ a favor!

“It meant a lot.” Emmett had bared his soul enough today (and last night, apparently, though perish that thought!), but gratitude was gratitude. “I really appreciate it, even though I plan never to speak of it again. You understand.” He was trying for flippancy, and felt himself falling short.

But Grace only smiled, very soft in lips and eyes, drawing him back into the mirage of the night before. “It doesn’t have to mean anything you don’t want it to.”

It struck him hard. Should he fight such a statement? It was so kindly said. “Just family crap,” he said. “I’ll be past it, for a while.”

“You’re good.” Grace ducked her head, eyes on the ground, but she was still smiling. Almost bravely, Emmett thought. He wondered why she felt like she had to be brave. “You’re good, and that is simple enough to stick to, you know?”

He didn’t, but she believed he could. “Yeah. OK.” If he apologized for last night, it would be weird. He hugged her quickly, almost casually, and smelled roses.

“Thanks, Grace.”

“You’re welcome, Em.”

She walked up the steps of her house, but mercifully, it didn’t feel like leaving.

“You’ve been gone _so long_ ,” was Mom’s petulant greeting, when he made it back to Hartfield House.

He expected something dangerous inside him, like anger, but instead he only felt relief. Mom would always be the same. Unchanged by loss, as briefly unhappy in good times as in bad. He wondered if this was how Grace went through the world— _their_ world—having mercy on the shallow and petty. He pressed a kiss to the top of Mom’s head.

“I’m back,” he said.

“And you’re not the only one.” Her voice had grown steadier already. “Seems like people are just flocking into town.”

Emmett sat down across from her and shook the weekend off his shoulders. “What do you mean?”

“Francesca Church is back,” Mom said, lightly. No doubt it was common gossip to her. “She’s moving in with Ashley and Noel. Very sudden, you know. She is a very… _sudden_ girl. But I don’t doubt it will make her sister happy. You know I always wish we could give Ike his old room back.”

Emmett felt the firm closure of a chapter, and all the attendant questions, in the face of this news. His pulse jumped a bit; his ears rang. It must be love. This was what he’d been waiting for.

The feeling ought to be considerable, and he was objectively quite sure that, to be true, it could not also be doubtful.  


	28. Chapter XXVIII

_“Attachment had really subsided into a mere nothing; it was not worth thinking of…”_

_i._

“I can tell from your expression that you agree.”

Lucas Goddard sighed. “Grace, I wish I didn’t. But you’re staring down a narrowing road. I don’t…agree with the delivery of your investors’ advice, certainly, but they’re not wrong. The steps you’ve taken, in the current economy…”

“…and with this year’s blight problem.” Grace resisted the urge to drop her head in her hands. “Alright, listen. I know, I know, Lucas. It’s not a good long-term plan. But I’m not going to cut workers’ wages, and I’m not going to ‘rebrand,’ if by that we mean white-washing.”

“It’s rebranding that started this problem,” Lucas said. “Knightley was a known name. Caballero is…less familiar. And no, no, it’s not necessarily because of a cultural or ethnic divide, it’s just that you’re going to get lost in translation.” He grimaced. “Pardon, I suppose, the pun.”

Grace was the one to sigh, this time. She’d spent the day before being practically berated by her investors and shareholders, who pointed out, rightly, that despite a steady stream of business, Caballero Fields just wasn’t turning the profit it needed to be. The suggestions—mainly, that she should replace a living wage with minimum wage, and maybe stop wasting so much time on trying to find whole families to employ—had been offensive. But Grace couldn’t afford to be _just_ offended, so here she was, asking a second opinion of Lucas Goddard.

It looked very much like he didn’t have one to give.

Grace stood up and paced to the window of Lucas’ office, facing onto the main street of Highbury. It was a gray day; almost December. “What about a new class of investors? Ones who actually care about what I’m trying to do here?”

“Bleeding hearts?” Lucas asked, with more cynicism in words than in tone.

The corner of Grace’s lips twitched. “Maybe.”

“It’s a reach. You’d have to find deep-pocketed idealists, Grace. They’re in short supply.”

She thought of Emmett. An idealist, yes, but only for a moment. Maybe it was easier to live that way, flitting from one ideal to another.

Her head ached. “Thank you for your advice, Lucas. I’ll be in touch next week, with the quarterlies.”

She showed herself out. She was tired, and it was a chilly day, and—

_“Gracia, love. This belongs to you.”_

She’d wanted to ask if she was old enough, then, and she hadn’t. _“Thank you, Papa.”_ She’d thanked him, because one should be grateful for gifts.

“Grace!”

“Arthur! Hello!” She swallowed down her weariness, finding a smile instead. “How are you?”

Oh, how Emmett would smirk at what ensued. Jake had caught a head-cold, and that was a topic to which fifteen minutes were devoted without difficulty. Grace switched her portfolio from one hand to the other and then back again.

“It’s such a bad time of year for colds,” Arthur was shaking his head. “I told that to Francesca the other day. Such a sweet girl, I always say. I’m sure. She’s back here for good, isn’t she? Thoughtful of her to stop by, though. Very thoughtful.”

For one instant, Grace’s imagination eagerly reached— _Francesca and Jake, what if_ —and the next she drew back, reminding herself that that way, delusions lay.

She wouldn’t wish Francesca on Jake, anyway.

At home, she pored over the books again. There was nothing new to be learned. Or if there was, it was beyond Grace’s grasp. She was ordinary, utterly ordinary. She wasn’t a visionary or a risk-taker.

Unbidden, she remembered Marnie’s constant mention of the _Slate_ article, and cursed.

“Miss—I mean, Grace?”

“Hi, Rosa.” Grace lifted her head and tried for a smile. “Is there a problem.”

Rosa seemed a little reticent. Finally, she said, “People are talking.”

People were always talking. Grace set her jaw. “Yes?”

“I thought you would want to know. Is…are the Fields closing?”

Her mouth was hot and dry. “No, no. I’m just managing business, Rosa. Sometimes it’s trickier than others. If there’s ever a serious problem, I would let you all know.”

Rosa nodded. “I understand.”

When she was gone, Grace thought about it crying. Thought about it, and didn’t.

Julia wouldn’t understand. Julia, after all, had never had any interest in inheriting the family business. Her parents would understand, but only because they were the ones who had left it behind.

Rome wasn’t built in a day, though, she felt sure that Emmett would add that it was burned in one.

Emmett.

She’d barely seen him, since. Since he opened up and she shut down. At least that was the best way she—no poet, no artist—could classify the turn of events. She had tried to keep her eyes steady and her smiles welcoming, but she couldn’t become someone she wasn’t in the space of a weekend.

Not that he’d stayed to notice.

It wasn’t fair to be angry with him. It wasn’t reasonable, either—hadn’t her foreboding morning made that clear? Emmett shouldn’t be the first or second thing on her mind. Emmett shouldn’t—

But it was over a week ago, now. Thanksgiving was days away and Grace should travel to Arizona but really, did she have the time? And if she didn’t go to Arizona, where Julia and Ike would be, then wouldn’t that mean that—

Thanksgiving with the Woodhouses. It had been…well, it had been since before Emmett was at college. Before Ike and Julia were married. Before her parents—

It would look very different now. Grace had no doubt that Harry would turn up, which she did not mind, and very little doubt that Francesca would make an appearance, which she minded very much indeed. Francesca had settled seamlessly once more into Highbury. Everyone talked of her and Emmett talked _to_ her more, Grace was sure, than he talked to anyone else.

It was another thing that shouldn’t be on her mind, jostling for pride of place with the all-too-real predictions of her investors and Lucas. Grace rubbed her forehead again, feeling weighty and paralyzed behind her desk. She had work, and Emmett had Francesca again. Such, after all, was life.

_ii._

Harry said, “I think she came back for you.”

Emmett had entertained the same thought, failed to _be_ entertained by it, and therefore discarded it. Seeing Francesca was…enjoyable enough. He liked her company. He would always, he was sure, like her company.

He was not in love with her.

More and more, he was certain that he was not capable of such a feeling. Testing the theory by proposing some sort of relationship to her seemed—cruel, in more ways than one. And also, it would be a risk: what if she turned him down?

Emmett was not in the habit of being turned down.

He had decided the day after he got back from the weekend in L.A. that he was not in love. Francesca had come to see him, with Ashley and Noel. He had been flitty and nervous the whole morning—they’d come over for lunch, because Mom had invited them—and then—

And then—

He saw her and she hugged him, slim arms around his neck and all the golden edges of her pressed against him. It should have been perfect. Instead, he had felt the nerves ebb away, like rivulets winking through sand, and just like that, he was only Emmett and she was only Francesca and there could never be anything more than that.

Emmett was not often disappointed, because he avoided disappointing things.

“She’s very pretty,” Harry mused. He had often said it before, but Emmett couldn’t blame him for noticing again.

“You’re still coming on Thursday, right?”

“For Thanksgiving?” Harry turned pink, inexplicably. “I’m…I’d like to, I just—”

Emmett lifted a brow. “You have other plans?” He wouldn’t be disappointed. He wouldn’t.

“The wedding.” It was a mumble.

“The _wedding_?” Emmett was all righteous indignation, all of a moment. “You mean—you can’t mean—Marnie and August?”

Harry was fully scarlet. “It’s Saturday,” he said, sighing. “I thought I should maybe…offer to help. Just…”

“Just what?” Emmett stared at him. How—but Harry was a mystery, at times, for his very denseness. Of course Emmett knew that the wedding was Saturday. He’d been invited—not, he was sure, out of good will, but rather out of whatever triumph Marnie had thought she could derive from it. Grace probably would have advised him to stay at home, but Emmett wasn’t going to appear to be affected by Marnie’s attempted manipulations. In light of that, he had, after a brief consideration of the available options, decided on going.

But Harry!

“Harry, you need to stay as far away from both of them as possible. You know that, right? We’ve been over this?” They had been; it was a rhetorical question. But rhetoric was as lost on Harry as most other things.

Harry sighed. “I can’t get past her, Emmett. I can’t.”

Emmett cleared his throat. It was, perhaps, his curse—to find for himself, and to inflict on others, the inability to _move on_ and be useful, even when staying in one place ended up looking ridiculous.

“You absolutely should not offer to help,” he said, trying for a kindly tone. “I could use your help _here_! Really, Harry, it will be for the best, I promise.”

He wished he could tell Grace about Harry. She would have some sort of wise advice about steering him right, but seeking it out would be practically an admission that he’d been wrong about a lot of things. Which—yes, he’d been wrong about Marnie, and he’d admitted it, but he didn’t want Rosa Martinez brought back into the picture.

Nothing against her. But Emmett couldn’t be wrong about _everything_. Couldn’t.

Ashley and Noel and Francesca were all coming for Thanksgiving, as were Arthur and Jake—that was, if Jake recovered from whatever ailment he had. Mom had insisted on Arthur, and Noel had said, _come on, Emmett, it’s a holiday about being nice to each other_.

Which wasn’t strictly true, but Emmett didn’t argue (much).

And as for Grace? Emmett hadn’t seen much of her since L.A. She’d been working and he’d been figuring out whether he was in love with Francesca and all of it had meant that almost two weeks slipped by with barely a conversation. Then he remembered that Ike and Julia were going to Arizona for Thanksgiving and then he wondered if he’d been wrong in assuming that Grace would too.

“I have to go,” he announced briskly to Harry. “I’ll be back.”

He never invited Harry to come on visits to Grace. Grace was part of a different galaxy, all told, one whose orbits Harry didn’t understand.

Francesca didn’t understand her either.

_She doesn’t like me, does she, Em?_

_She’s just quiet._ He had sounded defensive, and it had made her laugh.

_Was she your first crush?_

_Nah. That would be Alicia Silverstone._

_Ah. Naturally._

“That’s OK,” Harry said, though he was pretty accustomed to hanging out at Hartfield on his own from time to time. “I promised Mr. Goddard I’d do some filing for him tonight.”

Emmett tucked his hands in his jacket pockets on the way to Caballero Fields, wondering why Harry could be simultaneously so complacent and so abjectly miserable over Marnie. Abject misery didn’t seem to have as much weight as it should have.

Harry had been disappointed, and he had kept living.

He started up the walk to the house, and almost collided with Rosa Martinez.

He knew her by sight, of course. Investigation on Harry’s behalf—what felt like a long time ago, now—had ensured that.

Emmett found himself utterly silent.

She stared at him for an uncomfortable moment. Then she nodded and said, “Mr. Emmett.”

“Hello,” he said. He was known, but not just by name. He could feel it clearly. “I—uh. I came to see Grace.”

“She’s inside.” Rosa hadn’t dropped her direct gaze. It made him want to squirm, but he wasn’t going to. “She’s had a long day.”

He lifted the corners of his lips in a smile that looked, no doubt, as forced as it felt. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

His ears heated up when he walked away. That, of course, meant that he would look like he’d been blushing when he saw Grace.

 _Just great_.

He refused to contemplate guilt.

She answered the bell after the second try. She was wearing jeans and an old flannel shirt. He imagined painting it in watercolors, soft, aching. The tendril of hair twisted around the button on her collar would be accomplished by a single drag of a brush.

“Hey, Em. What’s going on?”

“Thanksgiving.”

“You’re welcome.” She smiled, but her eyes were tired.

 “No, uh—” and dammit, it was unlike him, not to have a quip. “You’re not going to Arizona?”

“I’m not.” Her gaze was different than Rosa’s. At least, he hoped it was. He hoped that after all this time, Grace knew some good things about him, along with all the bad.

“Then—you should come to Hartfield.” The words were tumbling out, now. “I would have invited you sooner, but I thought you had already left. Anyway, we’re having Noel and Ashley and Francesca and Harry and Jake and Arthur. A regular assortment of Pilgrims. You know. Hopefully better fashion sense. Don’t care for the buckles.”

Grace dropped her head. “Full house then.” She looked up at him again. “I think I might be in the way this year. Thanks, though.”

He swallowed hard. “In the way? Why?”

“It’s—it’s nothing. I’m just…not very much fun.”

“You’re not supposed to be the life of the party, Grace. You don’t have to be. No one expects it.” He tugged at his collar. “That wasn’t supposed to sound insulting, by the way.”

“You never _sound_ insulting, Em. You just are.” But she laughed a little. “No, really. I’ll come and visit the next day, when it’s a little quieter.”

He felt deflated. “OK. We _are_ thankful for you.”

“Me too.”

“For me?” _God,_ why was he always so desperate?

She smoothed her hair back over her shoulders, so that the tendril wrapped around her button tugged free. “Yes. Yes, of course.”


	29. Chapter XXIX

_“Never more surprized, seldom more delighted, than at that instant.”_

_i._

“Marnie Elton, huh? Hollywood’s brightest star that never shone?”

“Have you ever met her?” Grace asked, knowing full well that Francesca hadn’t.

Francesca shook her head. “That’s the exciting part. An invite to a wedding of people I’ve never met? Count me the hell in.”

It was a strange conundrum, Grace reflected, when you disliked two people who were also predisposed to dislike each other. She closed her lips into a polite smile and followed Francesca in.

Since he presumably only wanted to get married once, August Hawkins had paid for everything that money could buy. He had rented a three-story beach house in Santa Cruz. It was not the same beach house of the fateful Fourth-of-July party, less than six months ago, but the irony was too much not to observe.

Grace walked under towering spirals of greenery and vines of golden light, past artful arrangements of calla lilies and roses. It was a little…much, but she supposed she would have been more gracious if she liked August and Marnie better, or at all.

Not that she would tell him, but she was only at the wedding for Emmett. She hadn’t thought he would go at all, but then she heard he _was_ going, and—well, she was worried. Wasn’t she allowed to be worried? She hoped so; it seemed like all she ever did.

“That’s her?”

 Marnie was descending the stairs down to the front lawn, a cumulonimbus of white tulle. Grace nodded.  “Yes.” _Obviously._

Francesca chuckled. “Subtle.”

Grace almost smiled genuinely at that, but then she saw Emmett out of the corner of her eye, dashing as usual in midnight blue. Francesca moved towards him, and Grace picked at her nail-polish.

Marnie and August were married on a red-carpeted platform on the beach. The sun was setting, and Grace found herself wanting to see Emmett’s exact expression when they read their melodramatic vows, but he was wearing sunglasses and had his hands casually tucked in his pockets.

So, instead, Grace turned to Harry, seated beside her. He looked downtrodden.

“Are you OK?”

He started. “What?”

Grace tried to focus on the crashing waves instead of Marnie simpering at August. “Are you OK?”

Harry shrugged his broad shoulders. “I know I should be.”

Why had Emmett let him come to this? Grace tried to send a glare in his direction, but it glanced off him. “Well, at least it’s a beautiful night.”

It was. Too chilly to be having an outdoor wedding, but why would Marnie and August care about the comfort of anyone else?

Afterwards, there was a blur of drinking and eating and dancing inside the beach house. One had to stay inside, mostly, in November. The greenery was all shipped in from southern greenhouses. Grace brushed her hand against the leaves. The dress she was wearing had long sleeves, but a slightly low back—she hadn’t noticed the detail when she’d bought it online, but she’d felt obligated to wear it at least once or twice.

“Surprised you came.”

“Hello, Noel.”

“Surprised,” he repeated, “But glad. Nice to have some friendly faces around here.” Most of the guests were August’s friends and family, none of whom were friendly.

She refrained from asking why Noel—or any of them—had come at all. “It’s good to see you.”

“We missed you at Thanksgiving.”

She smiled politely. “Yes, Em invited me. I just—I got kind of caught up with work.”

Noel always looked like he was about to say something that he thought better of at the last moment. He returned her smile and asked if she wanted a drink.

“Maybe in a bit,” Grace said, and then remembered something. “I heard from Arthur that you and Ashley made an announcement at Thanksgiving. Congratulations.”

Noel was pink with pride. He really was a sweet guy. Perhaps he and Grace could have been friends, if they didn’t have a bundle of dynamite in human form to fight over. “Yeah. She’s due in June.”

“That’s wonderful. I’m so, so happy for you.”

She pressed her hand against his before he went away. Grace had always wanted children, but it didn’t seem—well, it just wasn’t—

“Grace!” The bride and groom descended on her. Grace reminded herself that she _had_ accepted their invitation and was as cordial as possible.

“You know what gift I’d like best,” August hinted, waggling his thick eyebrows. “Come now, Grace. Look around. I’m the man you need.”

It was harder to laugh off offers to buy the Fields than it had been a few months ago. Grace concealed this fact, shook his hand, and wished him well. “Thank you, August, but I’m sure that marriage will keep you busy enough.”

“We’re _so_ glad you came,” Marnie told her, smothering her in a hug that was more tulle and organza than anything else. She hadn’t even taken her veil off for the reception. “You’re such a community fixture.”

How that could pass as a compliment, Grace didn’t know. She was glad when they drifted off to harass Jake and Arthur. Well— _glad_ wasn’t the word. She felt sorry for Jake. But before she could decide whether it was her moral duty to rescue Jake, Emmett appeared next to her.

“This sucks, right?”

“We both agreed to come.” Grace sighed.

He smirked. He smelled like mint. Grace tried not to breathe too deeply.

“Keep an eye on Harry, OK?”

He blinked. “I always do.”

“Em, I’m dragging you off the dance now!” Francesca’s voice slivered the air around them, leaving Grace cold. She linked both arms around one of Emmett’s. “Sorry, Grace—you can have him back eventually.”

If Emmett apologized at being rushed off, Grace didn’t hear it.

 _I’ll keep an eye on Harry, I guess_. He was standing at the foot of the stairs, below a wide landing where the punch bowl and a tower of glasses were arranged. He looked very handsome and very vacant and very sad.

Grace’s heart went out to him.

What happened next was, perhaps, better observed by people who weren’t in the thick of things. Grace saw a blur of white on the landing—Marnie. Saw Marnie see Harry, and saw Marnie actually _tip the punch bowl—_

One of these days, Grace was going to stop saving people.

 _One of these days_ , she told herself, but that seemed quite far off when one was blinking strawberry punch out of one’s eyes.

Harry was staring at her, reorienting himself from her firm shove. The entire _room_ was staring at her. The gasp of horror over head might have been Marnie’s; the bellow of apology from across the crowd was certainly August’s.

“Grace! Miss Caballero!” He was _distraught_. No doubt, Grace thought, he saw any chance of ever purchasing Caballero Fields disappearing before his eyes.

 _We’re going bankrupt anyway,_ she thought, almost humorously. She was drenched and sticky, head to foot, and she was thinking about _bankruptcy_.

“What the hell?”

She wasn’t thinking about bankruptcy anymore; she was thinking that Emmett sounded _extremely pissed_ , and that really wasn’t what was needed on this occasion.

“I’m fine,” Grace said. “It was an accident.” It wasn’t, but Marnie was nowhere to be seen.

“Do—do you want a towel?” Harry ventured, timidly.

“I—” She didn’t know what you were supposed to do when you were covered in punch. It had never been a problem before.

Emmett’s hand, warm and dry, closed around hers. “Grace, oh my God. Let me—”

Everyone was still staring at them. “I think I need to get to a bathroom.” Calm. She would be calm.

“Yeah, yeah, of course.” He was deadly serious; soon to be seriously deadly, too, if she didn’t stop him. She suddenly didn’t have a doubt in her mind that Emmett had seen the whole thing happen.

Someone—waitstaff? Probably having the time of their life—directed them, and finally, _finally_ , Grace and her sticky eyelashes and hair and _everything_ were shut away from prying eyes.

She peeled off her dress, and stuck her head in the sink, switching the faucet to a sharp gush.

“Are you alright?” Emmett was leaning against the door.

“I’m washing my hair under a tap,” Grace retorted, almost snappishly. Which wasn’t fair—it wasn’t Emmett’s fault, for once. Except that she _had_ only come for him, but—oh, there was no time for that. “So, no.”

A little silence. “I’m going to kill them, Grace.”

“Please don’t do anything until I get out there.” Said firmly.

More silence.

“Emmett Theodore, _no_.”

“Why do you know my middle name?”

Her neck hurt. The punch hadn’t seeped through to her bra, but now she was spattering it with water, which was an unpleasant sensation. “I know everything about you, dumbass.” She sighed, flipping her head up, and grabbing a hand towel. “Sorry. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“But I might.” He sounded angry again. “Do you need me to come in?”

Grace almost shrieked. “No! No! I’m—not decent. But. Can you—I need something to wear.” Her heart was sinking. “I…I can’t leave yet.”

“Why the hell not?”

She’d driven Jake and Arthur here. They were having car trouble. She didn’t want Emmett’s opinion on this. “I carpooled. And before you say anything, I’m not going to make anyone leave right now. We’re like an hour from home, and it’s not that late yet. I just—”

“You need something to wear.” Grace could practically hear him thinking. Finally, he added, “Here. Open the door a bit and I’ll give you my jacket.”

“I’m not going to prance around wearing just your jacket!”

“It’s better than nothing!” Emmett answered, aggrieved. “You’re petite.” He would say _petite_ instead of short. He _would_. “It’ll be like—a mini-dress on you.”

 “Which I have never been prone to wearing! I need something to go _under_ it.” Grace kept toweling off her hair and set her jaw against the bitter reality. “You’d better go get Francesca. I think she’ll probably know what to do.”

Francesca did. “Oh, honey, this is the worst! What _happened_? I didn’t see.”

That, at least, was a relief. “It’s not important,” Grace assured her. “Please, do you have any ideas?”

Francesca laughed. “Of course. I brought an extra dress. Always do. Just in case!”

The dress, along with Emmett’s jacket, was passed through the door. Grace examined the sequined slip in some horror and then put it on. It came to her knees; Francesca was taller than she was. She put Emmett’s jacket over it, slicked her hair back into a bun, and balled her ruined dress into her purse.

Then she breathed.  

Emmett, still impossibly crisp in a white shirt—pocket square relocated—was waiting for her, leaning against the doorjamb. He whistled softly. “Very high-fashion, considering the circumstances.”

“I’d give you back the jacket, but—”

“But my dress is a little too slutty for you?” Francesca finished, grinning amiably. “No problem.” She tipped back the rest of her cosmo. “Glad to help—now I really have to get back to Ja—to the party.”

Grace watched her go, momentarily confused. Get back to _Jake_? That’s what it had sounded like. She remembered her theory of a few days ago, petulantly cast up by her subconscious. Strange, if it was coming true!

“Hey.” Emmett was still beside her. In a seemingly unconscious motion, his hand settled against her lower back as they walked down the hall together, a pleasant weight. In the dim light, his eyes were closer to hazel than green. “Thanks.”

“For what?”

He glanced down at her hastily thrown-together outfit. Grace didn’t have to; she knew that the stain was all over her dress.

“For saving Harry.”

Grace skirted the compliment. They were almost back to the crowd. She wasn’t going to let it bother her, wasn’t going to let any of this bother her. “He doesn’t deserve the way people treat him. Especially _them_.”

“I’ll buy you a new dress,” Emmett said, lower still. He was always offering to buy her things. All flash and no substance—only that was cruel, and false, and Grace only ever thought things like that because she was afraid of thinking something else.

Before she could speak—tone, not words, conveying the softness of an apology he didn’t know was needed—Emmett was speaking again. “It was planned, you know. I saw August signal to her from across the room. I will kill them, Grace. I really will. Once you’re not watching.”

He was angry. It lent him something darker, and older, but Grace could push past all that and see that he was just worried for his friend. “Don’t waste your time with them,” she said. “Harry will be alright. He’s got you.”

“And we’ve got _you_ , thank God.” Emmett smiled, then, the storm-cloud gone as quickly as it ever was, and his eyes were green again and his face, looking down at her, as they walked, was so near and dear, and Grace—

_—loved him—_

She stumbled. He steadied her. “Are you alright?”

A nod. Up, down. It was a simple thing. So was watching _love_ turn to _in love_ , when the two had grown together, quietly and surely.

She thought, _this will be so much harder now_ , and allowed herself one small indulgence. Not because she’d saved Harry—she didn’t ask for payment. Just because she was going to keep silent, and it was going to hurt. (Perhaps it always had.)

The indulgence was this: she hugged him at the end of the hall, just before they stepped into the line of everyone’s sight.  She stood on tiptoe, letting her head rest against his shoulder, cheek against his chest, only for a moment, felt his heartbeat against the line of her throat, wondered if his cologne was worth more than her whole wardrobe.

Wondered if Emmett would ever learn to love anyone.

Knew, with all the finality of her history, that it could not be her.

(Because Emmett was eleven and missing his father, only not in a way that anyone could see. And Emmett was fifteen and an idiot, already managing a sun-god grin. And Emmett was eighteen and _leaving_ , leaving California but Grace most of all, and Emmett was twenty and grown-up at Julia’s wedding—and _Grace had never changed_.)

(That was her curse. To be permanent, and to have loved all along.)

_ii._

“I didn’t even get splattered,” Harry exclaimed. “She was so _fast_.”

Emmett glanced over to where Grace was talking to Noel, drinking after-dinner coffee, ankles crossed. Like nothing had happened. To be honest, he marveled at it. What else was there to do, but to marvel?

To Harry, he said, “I’m sorry I let you come.” As soon as the words were out he realized how wrong they were. Before Harry could respond, he held up his hand. “Actually, I’m sorry for pretending that I was in control of your life. That’s what got us into this whole mess.”

Harry glanced over to the couple of the hour. “They really are…jerks, aren’t they?”

Emmett laughed softly. “Yeah. They are.” He reached out and punched Harry lightly on the shoulder. “You’re sure you’re no worse for wear?”

“Better, actually.” Harry sounded a little dreamy. It had been an eventful night, so Emmett didn’t worry over his absentmindedness. He stood up, under the pretense of getting another drink, and scanned the room.

August and Marnie, who more demonstrably than ever deserved each other, were talking together. Francesca had disappeared; Arthur was wandering around looking for Jake. Emmett avoided him. He sauntered, with studied casualness, over to Noel and Grace

“This is one for the history books, huh?” Noel queried mildly.

Grace laughed. She was all grown-up and formal again, unlike the girl on the other side of the bathroom door who had sounded a little hysterical. Emmett liked both Graces very much, but there was something about the girl behind the door that was—strangely more accessible than any other kind of Grace.

 _That’s because_ you _are almost constantly hysterical._

_Shut up, whoever you are._

“Would you like some punch?” Grace asked, smiling up at Emmett.

The smile was, inexplicably, backed by a brick wall, but he returned it all the same. There wasn’t any reason for her to be hiding something from _him_. “I think you’ve cornered the market effectively there, Miss Caballero.”

“You know,” Noel said, leaning towards Grace, “I’ll take Jake and Arthur home with us, if that’s easier for you. You don’t have to stay all night.”

The association of Grace and Jake Fairfax had not lost its sting. So that was who she’d carpooled with. Grace, not looking at Emmett, said, “That’s OK. Everyone will gossip about it tomorrow whether I leave now or an hour from now.”

She was even capable of being generous when her night had been literally _doused_. Emmett owed her much more than his jacket.

“Do you want to go outside, at least?” he asked. “A walk? We _are_ right next to a beach.”

She stiffened a little. “Oh, thank you, but I think I’d be too cold.”

 _Of course_. He could have kicked himself. Perhaps he would, when he got home. “Alright. Well…I don’t want to leave Harry alone for too long.”

Her hair was dripping onto the collar of his jacket. The sight of her all wrapped up in something of his felt right. It was as though, even with his perpetual need for self-chastisement, he had given her something she needed.

“Thanks again, Em,” she said, tugging the cuffs down over her hands, and he spent the rest of the chaotic night thinking almost solely about that.


	30. Chapter XXX

_“The fever was over…_

_‘Brother and sister! No, indeed.’”_

_i._

It was mortifying, Grace found, how little changed. Being in love with Emmett felt as natural as breathing, which could only point to one conclusion: this was nothing new.

So Julia had been right all along!

Grace pushed away the mental image of Julia’s triumphant cackles and stared at the blank email draft in front of her. Her alma mater had written, asking her to come back and speak for some event about successful young entrepreneurs.

Would attending be disingenuous? What would she say, at such a thing?— _Thank you for inviting me, but as my business may be on the verge of collapse within the next eight to ten months, I really don’t have much to say—_

In light of all that, the realities of winter on the farm felt harder this year. Growing season ended earlier than it did in the south, of course. Planting was long over. Weeks ago, now, the workers had either returned home to Mexico, or, in the case of the permanent employees, like the Martinezes, picked up other jobs around town.

The whole farm felt so empty, and Grace thought that she was empty, too.

Over the phone, a couple days ago, Mom had sounded excited, planning for the holidays. “It’s been so many months! You keep saying you’re coming and then you don’t. Christmas is _it_ , _carina_. You’re coming.”

And oh, didn’t Grace know! Knew that she’d have to sit across the table from her parents and tell them that she was carrying on the family legacy with pride and success and all the things that were in short supply of late.

As for what she wanted—

Well, what she wanted had nothing to do with the farm, at present, which was even more embarrassing. She wanted to see Emmett. She wanted Emmett’s arms around her and wanted to learn what it felt like to kiss him. She could imagine it pretty well. She _had_ imagined it. He talked too much, really, to _not_ know how to use his mouth for kissing.

Grace shut her eyes and took a breath. It would be useless to ask herself _why_ she’d allowed this to happen.

She—hadn’t.

Leaving the email unanswered, she tore herself away from her desk to do some grocery shopping. She hadn’t truly had Thanksgiving dinner, after all, and while the Americana of it had never been important to her, she wanted pie. Wasn’t a girl allowed some pie?

She’d bought the pie and was almost heading home before she remembered what the glittering parcel in the passenger seat was. She needed to return Francesca’s dress. The wedding was almost a week ago. Grace had been turning the events of that night over and over in her head, of course, but not because of Francesca.

She clenched her teeth and drove to Noel and Ashley’s. Much had been made in Highbury gossip about Francesca’s seemingly permanent reappearance in the community; had she had a fight with her mother? Was she tired of the east? Was she out of money? But Francesca was too pretty and charming in person for anyone to say these things to her face.

Grace didn’t say them at all. It wasn’t out of kindness; she wished, for her better self, that it was. But really, Grace just wished that Francesca would find success and happiness as far away from Highbury as such things could take her.

“Grace!”  Ashley was barely showing. “Hey, thanks for stopping by!” She grimaced. “I was having the worst morning sickness the day of the wedding. I felt _so_ terrible for not going! Francesca told me about it, though—are you OK?”

Grace nodded. “I’m totally fine. It was just some punch.”

“Some?” Ashley laughed. “Sounded like it was a _lot_.”

“Well, yes. But for a good cause,” Grace said, and then, before she had to explain that in the face of Ashley’s curious expression, she added, “Francesca was so kind to lend me the dress. Is she here?”

“No, actually—she’s out again.”

Grace concealed her relief, even while Ashley was sighing. “Oh, no problem. I’ll just leave it here. I had it dry-cleaned, but please have her just let me know if there’s anything else I need to do for it.”

Ashley tilted her head to one side. “Noel said Emmett was _really_ pissed off about it. I know he doesn’t like August or Marnie. Keep an eye on him, won’t you? He’s really the best boy in the world.”

Ashley was five years older than Emmett. Not enough of a difference to be so maternal, in Grace’s opinion, but she was, admittedly, a little touchy on the subject of Emmett at the moment.

“Please call if you need me to do anything.” Grace smiled, pushing to politeness. “I know Julia had a rough time for the first few months, too.”

She drove all the way home and realized that she hadn’t bought any milk.

“I need a hobby,” she observed out loud, for no one but Paco to hear. “Should I take up writing poetry? But I don’t have any rhythm.”

For a long while, she sat with her head in the hands, thinking about the slight, winning crookedness of Emmett’s lips when he smiled.

Then the phone rang.

_ii._

It happened like this: one moment Emmett was playing piano very badly, disliking the fact that Jake Fairfax existed, _still_ , and had to be thought of when anyone else was trying to practice the musical arts—

—and the next moment Mom came running in, actually _running_ , and said that Harry had just been in a terrible accident and was asking for Emmett before the end.  

He should have known that Mom was exaggerating. Always, he should have known. But Emmett wasn’t good at learning lessons when it came to life and death. He panicked.

(It was a family trait.)

To be precise, panicking in this case meant that he stopped breathing. Mom had collapsed into her chair and Emmett was standing, phone in hand, not moving, _not breathing_. He was pretty sure that he was never going to breathe again, and he wouldn’t be there for Harry’s last moments, and nothing, nothing could fix this—

His hands knew better than his head.

He looked down at his phone, and saw that he’d dialed Grace.

“Em?”

“Grace.” Voice, and breath, returned. “Grace, can you meet me at the hospital?” How did he sound so calm? “It’s Harry.”

Grace was waiting for him when he got there. “What do you know?”

“Not much.” He felt like everything around him was ready to explode, but instead it was just pressing down on him, a crushing weight. “Mom was frantic.”

“Emmett?”

He wheeled. Francesca, car keys dangling from a manicured finger, was staring quizzically at them.

“Do you—”

She waved a hand. “Are you here for Harry? He’s fine. His car is totaled, but he’s going to be fine. I—drove past a couple minutes afterward and, you know. Got him out. He was a little scraped up. I drove him here, and the doctor is keeping him for observation, but there’s no danger.”

Emmett’s knees felt weak. He leaned against Grace a little, which was stupid, because she was so much shorter than he was.

Francesca’s gaze dropped down. Emmett followed it and realized that she was looking at his hand, clasping Grace’s.

Grace let go first, but she gave his hand a little squeeze first, and somehow that made it alright. “Shall we go in and see him?”

The three of them went in, and Harry, looking very large in a narrow bed, beamed to see them. “I hope you weren’t worried!”

Emmett still felt like he was clenching his jaw to the point of fracture. “Nah, man. Was it your car?”

“Yes.” Harry looked crestfallen. “I don’t know—I think something went wrong with the steering—”

“Don’t worry about it.” Emmett could have kicked himself for bringing up the sober side of things. “We’ll straighten all that out later.”

Grace and Francesca stayed for a bit, making small talk, and then left Emmett and Harry to themselves. Grace paused at the door.

“Call me later,” she said. “If you want.”

He nodded. She bit her lip, and slipped out.

Not a moment after they were gone, Harry sat straight up. “I have to go to Hollywood.”

“What?” Emmett jumped up, a hand meeting Harry’s shoulder, pushing him back. “Buddy, hey. You need to rest.”

“I’m fine. The doctor said it was amazing, how fine I was.”

“Yeah, you’re _lucky_. They need to observe you, though. Who knows what kind of crazy concussion shit you could have? Latent—latently, or whatever.” Emmett wasn’t a _doctor_ , he didn’t need to _know_ these things, that didn’t meant that they didn’t _exist_.

Harry settled back down obediently. “I do, though.” His brows were knitting together in an unusually serious expression. “I’ve been just—dicking around here, at the bank, you know? I came out here to go to Hollywood.”

“I know.”

“I’ve been too scared. I thought I was—too dumb, or something. But now I’ve had a near-death experience. That’s when things have to change.”

“OK,” Emmett said. “This can, and should, however, wait until tomorrow.”

“It will. I guess. Seems like a long time to wait.”

Emmett found himself smiling. Fondly. God, he was very fond of Harry. If anything had happened—

“I’ll do anything I can to help,” Emmett promised him. “I’ll scout agents with you. I’ll find you auditions.” Surely Emmett Woodhouse had _some_ pull.

“Thank you,” Harry said. He turned his head on the pillow and sighed. “I have a confession to make.”

Emmett raised his eyebrows. “Sure. Shoot.”

“I was still in love with Marnie. Until, like. Really recently.”

Emmett strove to appear very serious indeed. “Wow. OK. That…must have been hard.”

“It was.” Harry blinked a couple times. “But it just changes everything, you know? When someone does something like that for you. Steps in and makes sure you’re taken care of. Not everybody would do that, you know?”

Surely, it was not _quite_ a repetition of old and plotting sins, _just_ to put pieces together. Emmett spoke slowly, carefully. “Harry, am I right…am I understanding correctly that—”

Harry didn’t even let him finish. “I got off-track. Maybe I just needed…to feel _good_ about a door being closed forever, to really take the next step.”

Emmett was more certain than ever now. “Because you’ve realized you have feelings for someone else, who isn’t interested in you?”

“Ugh, you’re always sharp,” Harry mumbled, but he was grinning again. “Yeah. Yeah, she’s not into me. I mean, why would she be?”

Emmett decided, as usual, that he had made a mistake. Francesca was lovely and charming and was always very sweet to Harry, and Emmett hadn’t given Harry any warning, any guidance. He’d been too focused on his own ends. And now Francesca had practically become a knight in shining armor—a Valkyrie, perhaps—and of course that, to Harry, was as good as _‘til death do us part_.

“Are you…mad about it?”

“Mad?” Harry shook his head. “No. I’ve just realized that…I mean, look, I hope Marnie’s happy, but I don’t really care about making my life around hers anymore. She and August will—well, they can just go off together. They don’t like me very much.”

That, too, was Emmett’s fault. “I’m glad you’ve seen through them.” Emmett drummed his fingers against his knee. “But really, Harry. Look—I know we’ve made too many mistakes before. We’ll leave this one anonymous, right?”

“Like a blind item?”

Emmett grinned, though that stung a little, in memory. “Yeah. Sure. I just hope you know you’re good enough. For whatever. Whoever.”

Harry shrugged. “Not really. But it’s still motivating, you know? When you have the best person in the world looking out for you?”

And that, Emmett could understand.


	31. Chapter XXXI

_“Yet stronger suspicion of there being a something of private liking, of private understanding even, between them.”_

_i._

December felt very long. Grace had done everything she could to research and inquire and do everything that was separated from _begging_ by even the slightest measure of dignity, but it was hard to make promises in cold weather.

Not, of course, that Highbury was ever very cold.

Grace felt lazy, and there was no one whose opinion she trusted on the subject of hard work who could reassure her otherwise.

“But there’s nothing to _do_ ,” she said to Paco. “Nothing to do at all.”

The latest potential investor—an old friend of her father’s, who had shown interest in rooftop gardens and hydroponics, which made Grace hold out hope for his adventurous spirit—had yet to call her back.

She heard the doorbell ring.

“Grace,” Emmett said, bursting in as soon as she turned the handle, “You _have_ to come to dinner.”

It was deeply unfair, Grace reflected, that Emmett could act as carelessly as he ever had, brushing elbows with her, basically, and leaning in, and—she dug her nails into her palms.

“Really? Why?”

“Jake and Arthur are coming, and Harry isn’t free, because he’s off to an audition—rental car, obviously, and—”

“So, I’m your second choice as a defense against two perfectly good people whom you happen to dislike?”

Emmett’s lips rounded in horror. “ _Grace_. What slander.”

“Truth is a complete defense,” she said, turning her back on him. Thank goodness her dark complexion meant that blushes weren’t as visible. “You’re going to have to do better than that.” What was she doing? Being _sassy_?

Emmett seemed more intrigued than bothered. “I’ll get down on my knees if I have to,” he coaxed. Grace’s stomach fluttered.

“Why are they coming over for dinner?”

“Mom invited them. She’s bored. Likes to help Arthur out. You know.” He sounded offended. “Why, do you think _I_ would?”

“No, I would certainly not expect that.”

“So, will you come?”

She should say no. She shouldn’t indulge Emmett’s petty dislikes. But she wanted to be near him, and she wanted something to keep her mind off of everything else. She sighed.

“Yes!” Emmett could read her movements too well.

They walked to Hartfield together. Grace didn’t remember much about the conversation, not because it wasn’t pleasant, or because it didn’t make her pulse quicken at every turn—it did—but because Francesca was waiting for them on the steps of Hartfield House.

And that ruined just about everything.

Emmett, _of course_ , was very pleased. “I mean this in the most welcoming of ways: what are you doing here?”

“Arthur asked me to come, too—I swear I was basically just passing by! I think he knows how much I enjoy good company. I am prepared to leave _immediately_ if you don’t have enough food.”

“Not enough food? Here?” Emmett waved a hand. Grace was torn between her usual recognition of the Woodhouses’ casual generosity—they had Arthur over for a meal at least weekly, and had for years—and her bitter frustration at Francesca. How much of the feeling was grounded in anything other than jealousy?

She went into the kitchen to help the Woodhouses’ cook, as a means of distraction. Chef Williams had been employed for as long as Grace could remember.  She was a broad-shouldered woman who had always had the good sense to keep Emmett and his meddling ways as far away as possible from sharp edges.

“Hello, Grace!”

“Do you need any help?”

“You’re the only one who ever asks. How many are here, now?”

“Six.”

“That Francesca girl again.”

“Yes.” Apparently, Grace’s tone earned her a quirked eyebrow.

“Get back in there and fight for yourself,” Chef Williams said, and pushed a stack of plates into Grace’s hands before she could protest.

In the dining room, Emmett and Francesca were sitting close. Grace swallowed her own discomfort—sharper now than before, because before she had _known_ , but she hadn’t _admitted_ , and it turned out that admitting things sucked—and looked towards Jake.

Jake was looking at Emmett and Francesca. Arthur was babbling to Mrs. Woodhouse and Francesca reached up to _ruffle Emmett’s hair_ , and Grace felt with near certainty that the look that must be on her own face at the moment was the one she saw on Jake’s.

 _There_ is _something between them._ She ground her teeth, truly angry now. Francesca was two-timing Jake, who was too isolated and quiet to stand up for himself! And she was flirting _openly_ with Emmett, who was too self-centered to be concerned about anyone else.

But it wasn’t Emmett’s fault, if she let her heart and head agree. It was Francesca, all Francesca. She _had_ been spending more time with Jake lately, Grace was sure of it. There was something so ugly, too, that Francesca, shiny and fickle herself, would be dissatisfied when faced with those same qualities in Emmett. How _dare_ she?

Grace mused on it all through dinner. Jake was barely drawn into conversation, except when his uncle insisted. The topic of conversation was all too often centered around August Hawkins. As part of his relentless campaign of “friendship,” it seemed, he was insisting that he had found new employment for Jake.

Finally, Jake had had enough of Arthur’s effusions. “I haven’t committed,” he said, almost sharply. “Nothing is final.”

“But Jake—” Arthur was round-eyed with confusion.

“Please.” Jake’s jaw was tense, but no tenser than it had been when he was watching Emmett and Francesca. “Let it go.”

There was an uncomfortable little silence. Grace felt for both of them. Francesca was looking at her plate, but that signified no sympathy; Grace was sure she was hiding a smile.

Emmett, surprisingly, stepped in. “So, Harry is halfway down the coast today,” he said, “Doing a remote audition. Just an open casting call, of course, but I think he’s going to be great. It’s a new CW pilot.”

Francesca lifted her head. “Do you think he’ll run into Lindsey Dixon?” she asked, fluttering her lashes. “I know she’s _so_ beloved.”

Emmett shot her a sideways glance, lips parted, that made Grace think even he was wary of affirming or denying the suggestion. The _why_ behind such indecision was obvious to Grace once she happened to look at Jake again; he looked furious, or ill, or both.

What the _hell_ were they all doing?

 _Be sensible_ , Grace reminded herself, which felt like a weighty task when Francesca’s fingertips were nearly ghosting against Emmett’s wrist when she reached for her water glass. _Don’t start seeing things and stirring up gossip just because you’re jealous._

But was it stirring up gossip when it was repeated to nobody?

 _That’s just the trouble. Emmett needs to be warned_.

Threads tangled more, in her mind, when Francesca caught a ride home with Jake and Arthur, as if they were old friends. Grace, who had never been one to pry, found herself longing to hear what was said once they were outside of Hartfield house.

“Are you alright?”

“Dinner was great, thank you.”

Emmett folded his arms over his chest. “Not exactly what I asked, Gracia.”

The use of her family nickname made her tingle, coming from him. “Emmett, can I ask you something?”

She could have sworn he stopped breathing. She also could have sworn that she used to know better than to be yearning for such a thing. “Anything.”

“Do you have any reason to believe that there might be…something between Francesca and—Jake?”

Emmett laughed. “You once _raked_ me over the goals for being a matchmaker. And now you’re playing at it?”

Grace kept her cool. “I’m not playing at anything, I just—I’ve gotten this vibe. Wondered if you had too.”

“Well,” Emmett tapped his chin with his thumb, looking thoughtful. “I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that tortured musicians have repressed feelings. But I can _definitely_ speak for the lady. She’s not interested in _him_.”

Grace took that dagger to the heart with all the calm she supposed to be warranted, given that she’d ask for it. She did not look down to see if blood was pooling at her feet. “Ah. OK. You two seemed to be having a joke at his expense, at dinner.”

A little flush rose in Emmett’s cheeks. Was he—embarrassed? “Nah. Not a joke. Just a…”

“I think it bothered him.” Grace reached for her jacket. “Goodnight, Emmett.”

He was almost springing after her. “I’ll walk you home!”

She shook her head, inviting no further argument. “That won’t be necessary. Thanks.”

_ii._

Francesca’s birthday was just over a week before Christmas. Her plan began as a simple one, as Emmett understood it: she wanted a camping trip in the Redwoods forest. At first it was only going to be her and Ashley and Noel, but then Ashley begged out because of morning sickness. According to Francesca, Ashley had invited Jake and Arthur—Arthur having been an avid camper in his youth—and therefore, Francesca was now on the steps of Hartfield begging for Emmett to even out the party.

“Can you imagine? My birthday, _ruined_ by that man’s rambling.”

“It does sound tough.” Emmett picked at a paint smudge on his knuckle. “Alright, so you want me to come?” He didn’t have much else to occupy his time.

“You, and Harry. If we’re going to do this as a party, we need _people_. Ugh. Without Ashley, it’s so short on women.” She winked. “Not that I _really_ mind.”

“You should invite Grace!”

Francesca tilted her head. “Should I? You know, I always wonder if maybe she doesn’t have a bit of thing for Jake.”

Emmett ground his molars but smiled anyway. _Funny, she says the same thing about you._ “She doesn’t. Is it cool if I ask her?”

“Wouldn’t stop you for the world.” Francesca glanced upwards, thinking. “OK. So that would be—seven of us? Any more? Should I invite August and Marnie?”

“I will start a forest fire myself if you do.”

“Noted.”

“Seven works anyway,” Emmett said. “It’s off-season, so you’ll need a permit. The off-season sites allow for up to eight.” He knew why he knew this, but not why he remembered it; the last time he’d camped in the Redwoods had been with Dad.

Harry, when told, was delighted. He’d gotten a promising callback—a second audition—and was in a mood to celebrate. “It’ll be like Christmas.”

“You know you can spend Christmas here with us, right?” Emmett reminded him. Christmas, after all, should feel like Christmas too.

Curiously enough, Harry insisted on coming along to ask Grace. Emmett could have simply texted her, but it was a nice day. He certainly wasn’t walking over to the farm just to make certain that Grace wasn’t angry at him because of the dinner a week ago. He hadn’t done anything _really_ wrong, had he?

Of course, he never knew.

The last time Harry had been to Caballero Fields—well, it was better not to dig up the past. It was just as well that Rosa Martinez was working at the grocery store for the winter. No chance of running into her here.

Grace wasn’t inside. She was walking between the rows with Paco trotting along behind her. Emmett stood and waved from afar, trusting that she’d recognize his silhouette. He knew hers from a mile off, he was sure.

“Hello, both of you,” she called out, when she was within speaking distance. Emmett felt like she was avoiding his gaze. The prick of uncertainty was plaguing him again.

Harry was very taken with Paco, which left Emmett to do all the asking. Once presented with the task head-on, he began to doubt that Grace would want to come at all. She’d never seemed to like Francesca very much.

“Are you doing anything this weekend?”

“I’m not sure.”

So. She was set on dragging it out of him with no promises made. Emmett rocked back on his heels.

“We’re going camping. Redwoods.”

“Oh?”

 _Damn it, Grace_. He forced an easy smile. Why was she being so difficult. “Yes. Noel, and Francesca—it’s her birthday—and Arthur, and Jake, and Harry, and I are all going. And we want you to come.”

“What do you mean by camping?”

“Tents. One night. Campfire. Hiking.” He enunciated the last word dramatically. “Remember how many hikes you used to take when you were a poetry-writing teen?”

Grace leaned down to scratch Paco under his shaggy chin. “I’ve never written any poetry, Emmett.”

That was strangely disappointing. “I’m sure you _could_ ,” he said, fluttering his eyelashes at her for no reason whatsoever. “Will you come? Please?”

“Please,” Harry echoed. “It would be so great to have you there.”

Well, it was nice of Harry to chip in. He’d been silent up until now.

Grace looked searchingly between them. “I’ll let you know.”


	32. Chapter XXXII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Due to the trajectory this story has taken, August Hawkins (Mrs. Elton) didn't seem like a natural fit at the Box Hill party. I hope you'll excuse the liberty.

_“It was a sweet view—sweet to the eye and the mind. . . . Nothing was wanting but to be happy when they got there.”_

_i._

Grace was almost convinced that she would _not_ go, because few things seemed more awful than sharing a tent with Francesca Church, which would almost certainly be the outcome of this Redwoods plan. She had better spend it calling potential investors and coaxing the disgruntled current ones to see things in a better light.

But she was still young, and as much as she hated to think it so directly, she was in love. And if _she_ did not make sure that Francesca’s tent was shared by Grace and Grace alone, who _knew_ what might happen? Forests were dangerously romantic places.

Grace would never voice _that_ thought aloud, of course. But it beat alongside her heart all the same, and the meter tipped much closer to _going_ even before August Hawkins appeared on her doorstep.

She hadn’t seen him since his wedding. She hadn’t wanted to. Grace didn’t make flamboyant murder threats like Emmett did, but she knew whom she disliked.

August, she disliked.

He didn’t ask to come inside, and Grace did not invite him. She would, if pressed—politeness, she thought, required as much—but for now she would wait.

“Where are the strawberries?” asked August.

Grace schooled her features. “They’re not in season,” she said. “We do keep some in cold storage, but at this point, most of them have gone out to supermarkets.”

“Ah.” August sighed heavily. It was put on; he wasn’t a man for remorse, even when he wanted something. “The deal’s still on the table. I’ve heard you’re struggling.”

Grace smiled, making sure that it was cold. “Where did you hear that?”

He lifted a thick shoulder. “Around.”

“I’m not putting anything of mine on the table, August,” she said. “Thank you for understanding.” And then she shut the door, and watched through the window as he went back to his car, and then she texted Emmett that she was coming.

She should have known that he’d show up wearing plaid.

“Are those skinny jeans? For camping?”

He waved a hand. “They’re distressed.” Grace stared at him blankly. He shifted beneath her gaze. “It helps with range of motion.”

Of all things, Grace had not expected the day to be dull. And it _wasn’t_ , when she and Emmett and Harry were driving up together. It took a little less than an hour, but they’d be hiking in to the Box Hill campground as soon as they rendezvoused.

“I hear it’s barely a hill,” Harry said, aggrieved.

“I’d rather hypocrisy than no cabins,” Emmett said, switching lanes. He seemed upbeat and happy. Probably at the prospect of seeing Francesca, Grace thought.

When had she become so cynical?

_Cynicism isn’t the same as disappointed hopes. Or at least, it shouldn’t have to be._

Beside him, she ached. Emmett in profile was no easier than Emmett head-on. He was always so much, in and out of her presence—the very thought of him was warm enough to burn.

And he never knew. Of that, Grace was so terribly certain.

The dullness, then, came later. It came when they arrived at the outskirts of the park and left the cars behind, shouldering their supplies. Francesca was in a terrible mood, and it would have been easy to blame it on her, but the ripple effect was powerful and even Noel’s attempt at cheerfulness couldn’t drag them out of it. Jake was silent as usual, but Arthur kept whispering that he had a headache, poor boy. Emmett was frowning, too, before long. For her own part, Grace sighed and tried to breathe in the rich air as they walked.

She would never, she was sure, grow tired of trees that were almost old enough to be mountains. How many years had passed where no one walked among them, or when peoples long gone had marveled at their height? She liked to think of how much, despite everything, she shared with those people. With these trees. She strayed off the path a little and laid her hand against the bark.

“They’re huge, right?” Harry had followed her. He was gaping up at the canopy. Endless, endless green.

“I love them,” Grace said. _You, a strawberry farmer. Doomed to grovel beside squat little plants in your failing kingdom. And you love the trees_.

But of course. Grace was used to loving unreachable things.

“I feel stupid here.” Harry’s voice was quiet. Grace turned quickly, drawn from her thoughts.

“Stupid? Why?”

“You have to, I think.” Harry sighed. “Stupid and small.” He smiled at her, shyer than she would have expected, after all this time. “But it’s better, you know? Because it’s universal. That’s how huge these trees are. They make everyone stupid.”

It wasn’t so much a surprise, after all, that Rosa had loved him or that Emmett had felt some sort of safety and surety as his friend. “Yes,” Grace agreed, smiling so warmly she saw his ears go red, “It is a good thing to feel stupid sometimes, for the right reasons.”

Harry smiled back and they stayed like that for a moment. But then Grace realized that the rest of their party had moved on, and they hurried back to the trail.

The campsite had three cabins and a ringed firepit. Noel and Harry were carrying most of the food; it wasn’t like Emmett had refused to help, but characteristically, he hadn’t remembered to offer either. The plaid shirt was annoyingly attractive on him. Grace would have rather been annoyed than attracted, given the choice, but apparently the two were destined to go together.

It was late afternoon. Noel built a fire; he was the only one who knew anything about it. Jake was sitting apart from them, back to a tree. Grace swallowed the awkwardness and went to sit by him.

“How’s it going?”

Jake didn’t even turn his head. “Why did _you_ come?”

“I thought it might be fun,” Grace said slowly, though that wasn’t exactly the reason. “Why did you?”

He didn’t reply. Grace let it go.

“Is there anything I can do for you?” She hated to see someone so miserable. She might have her suspicions, but they weren’t invited. She had always considered Jake a friend, but there was a wall between them, some vast unhappiness that she couldn’t reach past.

He shook his head and smiled up at her. He looked very tired, especially around the eyes. “Thank you, no. This is as good a place to think as any.”

Grace nodded and turned back to the camp. Francesca was looking at them, but when she met Grace’s gaze, she turned quickly away.

_ii._

He had expected better.

_You look at trees and label them just so,_

_(for trees are `trees', and growing is `to grow');_

_you walk the earth and tread with solemn pace_

_one of the many minor globes of Space…_

Not, so much, of the Redwoods, but of the general…mood. Francesca had wanted this, hadn’t she? It seemed a strange wish for someone who showed little interest in nature, or, really, anything other than herself. Emmett liked Francesca. He did. But he wasn’t blind to that shallow, circular essence she carried. How could he be? It was very familiar.

The hours dragged on. Jake might as well not be there. Arthur filled the space interminably, of course, and though Noel and Harry were as cheerful as usual, the whole thing began to feel foolish. Camping? Really? Why had they come here at all? There were fault-lines in the making; too many people who didn’t _really_ get along. Grace and Francesca didn’t belong in the same place, and certainly nor did Emmett and Jake.

Arthur belonged in the same place as precisely nobody.

Noel toasted sandwiches in a basket over the fire. They were delicious, but Emmett realized how much he disliked eating outside. Every root was lumpy, and needles and dust got in the food. True, the trees were astonishingly beautiful, just as they always had been. What had Dad said, when they were here? Ah, right, he’d quoted poetry: _growing is to grow_. Emmett had tried to put his arms around the base of one trunk and had practically been able to stretch them out flat. It wasn’t even a whole side.

“ _We could hollow one out and live in it.”_

“ _Mom wouldn’t like that very much, would she?”_ Dad had asked, laughing.

 _“No. Just you and me. We’ll go home and visit them sometimes._ ”

“Damn, you’re glum this evening,” Francesca said, nestling a little closer to him under the pretense of elbowing his ribs. “So is everyone. Shall we liven them up a little?”

Emmett had never been one for sheepishness, but this evening might just do him in. He didn’t want a group conversation, not here. “Is it worth it?”

Francesca’s eyes roved over the fire circle. She seemed a little restless. “Isn’t it always?”

He shrugged.

She jumped up. “Alright, everyone. Emmett thinks you are all boring as _hell_ , and has enlisted me to make you all entertain him.”

Silence. Noel sighed, albeit fondly.

Francesca was undeterred. “Emmett would very much like to know, in a sentence, what you are all thinking.”

“Goodness,” Arthur chuckled. How, Emmett wondered, could he _not_ feel awkward, the oldest by several decades among a bunch of young people who clearly didn’t want him around? “I’m sure if I said what I was thinking, I’d never stop!”

 _Don’t you already?_ Emmett thought dryly, but he didn’t say it aloud.

Grace linked her hands in front of her knees and tilted her chin up. Even in the dusk, across the dancing flames, Emmett knew that look. To be more exact, Emmett knew a cold shiver down his spine when he felt one. “Is Emmett _very_ sure that he would like to know?”

He pursed his lips. “Nope. I’m good.”

“Wuss.” Francesca glared at him over her shoulder. “Alright. Mr. Woodhouse has retracted his bold request to know what you are thinking, and instead proposes a good old-fashioned game of truth-or-dare.” She rested one graceful hand against her hip, but Emmett was sure for an instant that her hand was shaking. “Jake. You’re up. Truth or dare?”

Emmett looked towards Jake with interest. Jake did not look back; he was gazing up at Francesca, and Emmett thought it must true that he had one of his pesky headaches, because Jake seemed like he was in pain. “Truth,” Jake answered, clear and almost cold. “I’d like truth.”

Francesca sat down quickly next to Emmett, shaking her hair over her shoulders. She was flush against him, thigh to knee. “Does _engaged_ mean _off-limits_?”

Jake got to his feet. Emmett didn’t exactly know _why_ , but he almost expected Jake to stride across the circle and deck him one in the chin. Of course, it _was_ possible that Jake knew Emmett to be the source of the Lindsey Dixon rumor.

“I’m going to bed,” Jake announced. He was staring at Emmett as he said it, and he spoke through his teeth.

The pause dragged on unbearably until the door of the farthest cabin slammed shut.

Arthur broke it. If nothing else, Arthur could always be counted upon to break a silence. “He’s been quieter lately. So down at the mouth, you know? It worries me. It really does.” He shook his head. “Should I have said something?”

Francesca snorted. Emmett felt the mood lift. Or at least, he thought he did. He leaned forward, eyebrows lifted, and offered glibly, “Pretty sure he went to bed before you could say any _more_ , Arthur. Just for once.”

Noel rolled over to hide a grin that popped up before he could help it. Arthur blinked owlishly for a moment. Then he laughed too, still blinking. “Oh! Yes. Yes, that’s very true. We do live in close quarters, and I’ve always been chatty. That’s very true, Emmett. You know me well.” He stood up, a little creaky. “A—all the same, I probably had best be off to bed too. Noel, I’ll bunk with you, if you don’t mind? Wouldn’t want to disturb Jake.”

He walked off slowly, like an old man. He _was_ an old man, after all. Emmett turned back to Francesca, but she had wilted too, and was gathering her things. “Call it a night, shall we?”

She had more mood-swings than he did. Even if they were in love, it would never work. But Harry—Harry might be better able to steady her. And she would liven up his occasional stodginess. Emmett vowed he wouldn’t say a word, but really, why shouldn’t Harry hold out hope?

The lingering feeling of an unsatisfactory trip was mosquito-like, irritating, but Emmett could brush it away eagerly when he realized that everyone had dispersed except Grace. She was staring into the fire with a serious look on her face. When Harry had followed Noel away, too, she stood up.

“Take a walk, Em?”

He was always asking her to walk with him. She had returned the favor at last. Emmett tried to bite back his smile.

Grace led, hands in her pockets, her chin tucked towards her chest. She seemed to be thinking about something. Emmett, being given to flights and fancy, had all but imagined some improbable declaration of love—and who _knew_ what he would say, in such an event—when she wheeled around.

“How could you?”

He’d seen Grace frustrated and scolding, seen her truly blazing with anger, seen her disappointed.

He had never seen Grace with tears in her eyes.

“What?” God, what had he _done_?

“How could you say that to Arthur? Insult him like that?”

He rifled back through half a dozen witty comments, and twice that number that he’d left unsaid. Then he laughed in disbelief. “Are you kidding me? I made a joke. It was kind of a heavy mood.”

“And you thought you’d lighten it, by being cruel. Is that what you thought?” The sun had gone down and the trees were black with shadow. Grace’s face was pale in what little light there was. “I never thought I’d hear you cut someone down like that. I know you’re impatient, and stupid, and petty, but I did not think you would humiliate someone like that, just to show off.”

Alright, now he was getting pissed. And something worse than pissed, underneath that, but he couldn’t think of that now. “Jesus, Grace. It was one comment. How am I on trial for one comment?”  

Grace huffed a sigh, shaking her head and flicking her eyes upward. Like she couldn’t bear to look at him. “I know you know that words matter.”

“Words matter? That’s your take? He talks all the fucking time!” He was being defensive, unpleasantly so, and he wanted to crawl into a hole in the earth and die, if all options were _very_ equal, but there wasn’t a nearby hole, so. “Every day, Grace. He’s at every party, and he’s always going on about his goddamn nephew—”

“ _Because Jake is all he has!_ ”

She’d shouted. Grace, who never raised her voice, had shouted. Emmett stumbled back, hot all over. “Jake is all that Arthur has,” Grace said, quietly, but not more calmly. “He has a senile father and no money, and no other family, and he has one nephew, who loves him. Who comes and stays with him and makes him feel important. And _needed_. You made him doubt that, and you did it in front of _everyone_. You want to know what it feels like when your kid doesn’t love you? When kids grow up and parents aren’t sure if that kid respects them anymore? It feels like fucking _that._ ”

Emmett stared at the ground. His breathing was going all short and weird and he hadn’t felt like this in a while. Hadn’t felt like he was going to break down and start _bawling_ in front of—well, anyone. Least of all Grace. He remembered that night on the highway, after Marnie had roofied his drink, when he puked on Grace’s shoes and was sure it was the lowest point in his life.

Well. Scratch that.

He opened his mouth to say that he was sorry. The word—any words—wouldn’t come. If he spoke, it was going to be a sob, and that would never do.

He nodded, and forced in a breath, like a thunderstorm crackling between his ribs, and he turned away from Grace.

He didn’t deserve to look at her.


	33. Chapter XXXIII

_“As if his eyes received the truth from hers…”_

_i._

“I thought you weren’t leaving until next week, Miss—I mean, Grace.”

Grace latched her travel case shut and straightened up, rubbing her lower back. “Neither did I, Rosa.”

For someone who was so often alone, Grace didn’t spend enough time in self-reflection. Which meant, naturally, that revelations tended to overpower her all at once, and maybe _that_ was the reason why, after a sleepless night in the Redwoods and a dreadfully awkward ride home with Noel, who _knew_ something was wrong, she’d decided to take her Christmas trip to Arizona the very next day.

Loving Emmett was too much work to process in the midst of everyday life.

Rosa was working at the supermarket, but Grace had asked if she was willing to check messages and send out some mailings while Grace was away. Rosa had readily agreed.

“You seem stressed,” Rosa observed now, fixing Grace with a quizzical glance. “Man trouble?”

Grace couldn’t meet her eyes. “I just need some time.” As if it were as simple as that!

“He probably feels worse than you do,” Rosa said softly. “He cares so much what you think. Don’t go without saying goodbye.”

Grace brushed the suggestion off, dismissive. “I’m not leaving forever. I’ll be back.” Too late, Grace remembered, she’d forgotten to pretend that they _weren’t_ talking about Emmett.

“But it’s _Christmas_.” Rosa had clearly learned finality from her _abuela_.

That settled it. At the very least, Grace owed Rosa trust and confidence, so later that day, she pulled into the Woodhouses’ driveway, trying to breathe deeply. She could shake his hand, couldn’t she? They could part as friends, as they had often before. She couldn’t tell him _why_ she’d lit into him so much over a thoughtlessly callous remark; she knew that was what it was, but Emmett—

Emmett wasn’t supposed be like Francesca. Emmett was better. He _had_ to be.

_I love you. Don’t do this. Don’t become like that. Don’t—_

_Remember, foolish girl. You can’t ask any of it for yourself._

No answered her knocking. Finally, Mrs. Woodhouse called for her to come in when Grace cracked open the door and poked her head in. “I’m sorry, dear, but I’m comfortable, for the first time all day! I’m sorry to be such an invalid, but we take our moments when we can.”

Grace stepped inside, following the sound of Mrs. Woodhouse’s voice into the living room, where said matriarch was huddled in a sweater and afghan. The day was not notably cold.

“I just came to say Merry Christmas. I’m leaving for Arizona today.”

“You’re not going to be here for Christmas? You missed Thanksgiving, too.” Mrs. Woodhouse sounded petulant. But that was all it was, Grace realized; petulance. She lacked Emmett’s depth.

Emmett. _Depth_. Grace felt her heart twist in her chest.

“I haven’t seen my parents in a long time,” she said. “I realized that—well, family is more important than just about anything, isn’t it?” _Checkmate, Mrs. W._

“Yes, it is.” Mrs. Woodhouse arranged the blanket over her knees. She wasn’t even past middle age, but she was already living like an old woman. It was sad, really. “Well, I’ll tell Emmett you came by.”

“He’s not here?” It seemed, irrationally, like the end of the world.

“Well, I think he’s back…or should be soon.” Mrs. Woodhosue gestured vaguely. “He went to see Arthur this morning. He said he had something important to discuss with him—really, he was worked up about it. Though what it could be, I can’t imagine. We see Arthur every week!”

Warmth bloomed all through Grace unexpectedly. Flowers in winter. Hope and fire, both more than a harsh frost could ask for _._

_You are so much better than I ever let you know. Oh, Emmett._

For all his pride, he knew how to apologize much better than she did.

“But if you want to see him before you go, he might upstairs. His studio is in the attic, I’m sure you haven’t forgotten.”

Ever after, Grace knew that she had not strictly done what was necessary: she went upstairs. She could have left her greetings. She could have waited. She could have texted him. But Grace wanted to see his studio, wanted some desperate glimpse into Emmett’s inner soul.

She hadn’t wandered in Hartfield house for quite some time. She remembered, though, that at the end of the second-floor hallway was a narrow staircase to the attic. She remembered its peaked ceiling, how she and Emmett had played hide-and-seek there, in the unbearable heat of summer, until they had to find refuge in popsicles from the kitchen freezer. And yes—once, while he sketched, she had read aloud _The Voyage of the Dawn Treader_ to him while rain drummed against the eaves.

She loved him, and at the camp, she’d let her love become something hard, something that could hurt when she was trying to help. And how many times before? How many times had she withheld praise, withheld affection, thinking that he must do more to earn it?

Just because he wouldn’t love her back in the same way did not mean he didn’t love her at all. Emmett, wide-eyed, green-eyed Emmet, had always looked up at her, even when he had grown much, much taller than she was.

Grace turned the handle on the attic door.

The room was long and wide. In the far corner were a circle of canvases. Emmett himself was not among them. Grace stepped over drop-cloths and abandoned brushes, until she was among them.

Then she held her breath.

Every canvas—every canvas she could see—

 _Herself_. Eyes, lips, hair. A profile. A lifted brow. Her face full-on, but gazing upwards.

If this was Emmett’s inner soul, it was all very full of—her.

Grace felt herself flush hot, with no one to see, and she pressed the back of her hand to her lips. She must get away from here, and leave no trace that she had ever been present. It was a transgression, a trespass. She had gone too far, curious in love.

“Grace?”

Grace would always be embarrassed of how she reacted in that moment. She _squeaked_.

“Hi,” Emmett said, almost shyly. He didn’t comment on the unspeakable squeak. No plaid today; he was wearing one of his dark blue button-ups and fitted jeans. “I…” He swallowed hard, recognizing what she had done, had seen.

And then, in the same moment that he said, “ _I know, none of them look like you_ ,” she said, “ _They’re all perfect_ ,” and the whole world seemed not so much like it was holding still, as it did like it was holding in a breath.

“Really?” Emmett was white to the lips.

“Really,” Grace said, knotting her fingers together. It was only right, to be generous in saying goodbye.

“I always thought…”

She nodded, and kept nodding, turning half-around, not wanting to cry but feeling that she could never, ever say enough. “It’s—I’m very honored. To, you know, have been any kind of inspiration. For your—for your art.”

Emmett looked down at his feet. For once, he had nothing to say.

“I’m leaving,” Grace said, and his head snapped up.

“What?”

 _I’m not leaving forever. I’ll be back._ “Uh—for Christmas. I’m visiting my family. And—I didn’t—I didn’t want to go without, you know. Leave without wishing you a very, merry—”

“ _Grace_.”

“Your mom told me,” she burst out. “That you went to see Arthur. You’re—you’re very good, Emmett. You know when you’ve done wrong. And I—I shouldn’t have—”

Emmett grinned. Flowers in winter, hope and fire. “Shake hands?” It was his way—their way—to solve everything.

Grace held her hand out, and he took it. For one crazy, perfect moment, that she surely didn’t deserve, she thought he might kiss it. She wanted, badly, to kiss him.

They shook hands. “Merry Christmas,” Grace said. “I’ll see you when I get back.”

“I’ll look forward to it,” Emmett said, and Grace basked for as long as she could in the memory of that green-eyed gaze.

_ii._

Being forgiven by Grace was one of Emmett’s favorite feelings, even though it necessarily followed some tremendous screw-up on his part. In this case, the screw-up had been record-setting, but so had the amend.

 _They’re all perfect_.

Despite this glow, the week leading up to Christmas felt strangely drab and depressing. He painted Grace again, flushing at the memory of her compliments. He’d done it; he’d won her approval, even when his work wasn’t good enough to merit his own liking.

 _Is my taste better than Grace’s?_ he thought, almost smugly, and then dismissed the thought.

He thought of texting her, while she was away, but decided that he should respect her time off. She’d worked so hard all year—every time he saw her, she was working, and he was interrupting it.

If only he liked the strawberry business! _Then_ he could be some help to her.

On the third day after she left, Emmett decided that the depression was just because he missed her. Strange, because even in the height of his possible infatuation with Francesca, he hadn’t missed _her_ like this. And Grace was coming back soon.

It would be almost the New Year, by then. Emmett liked New Year’s—it was a time to start fresh, to believe that all the layers of pain and misunderstanding built up in previous months could be sloughed away with the turn and tear of calendar pages. Reconciled or not, he would never think of that fateful camping trip without flinching. He was fortunate for more than Grace’s forgiveness, this time—Arthur had been gracious, too. When asked, Arthur hadn’t even remembered that he’d been hurt.

It was a quality that Emmett had never respected, until now.

“You seem more serious, darling,” Mom informed him at breakfast, three days before Christmas. “Are you growing up?”

He was almost twenty-three; he’d gone away for four years, and he was starting to wonder if she’d even noticed at all. Emmett smiled. “Yeah, I think so.”

“Do you know, your brother grew up and left me. I never thought he would.” She propped her chin on her hand and sighed. “They’re not even coming up for Christmas, Em. Grace goes, they go…”

“Well, technically we’re not related to Grace,” Emmett pointed out, buttering a slice of toast. He found, as he said it, that he disliked thinking of it that way. Of _course_ they were related to Grace! She was a very necessary part of their lives, technicalities be damned. “And Ike and Julia will come for Easter. They just—wanted to try having Christmas at home this year.”

Mom frowned. “This _is_ their home.”

“Well, Harry’s coming,” Emmett said, rather than fighting that unwinnable battle. “Did you hear? He got _another_ callback. I really think he’s going to get the part in that pilot. Time to fire up _Gossip Girl_ reruns, I guess. It’s exciting.” He didn’t say what else he thought, which was that if Harry got the part, he’d be leaving too.

“What possible connections could that boy have in show business?” Mom shook her head. “Oh, what is the world coming to?”

Emmett heard the doorbell, set down his toast, and pressed a kiss to the top of Mom’s head as he went to answer it. He wasn’t expecting Noel, standing dolorously on the stoop, shoulders bowed.

“Hey, Noel. Want to come in?”

“I can’t stay.” Noel shifted from one foot to the other, looking older than he ever had. “Just had something to say. Didn’t feel like it was right to send in a text.”

“Hmm. Shouldn’t you be making pies so your pregnant wife doesn’t have to?” Emmett leaned against the doorjamb, crossing his legs.

“Emmett,” Noel said, biting his lip, “I’m not sure how to say this, so I’m just going to say it. Francesca just…Francesca just told us that she’s engaged.”

“Engaged?” Emmett was too taken aback to hide it. “When?”

“It’s not so much the when as the who,” Noel told him. “Apparently—apparently when she came back here, she had given her mother an ultimatum, and now that her mother’s come around to…letting her live her own life, and all that, she felt she could…announce it.”

Emmett rubbed at a tense spot on his neck. “OK. Mommy issues solved, got it. So, who is she engaged to?”

Noel grimaced. “To Jake. Jake Fairfax.”


	34. Chapter XXXIV

_“It darted through him, with the speed of an arrow.”_

_i._

Grace missed Julia. To be more exact, Grace missed Emmett, but it was hard to be in love and out of business, nearly, when sitting across the dinner table from one’s parents.

Julia’s ribbing would be welcome in comparison. All the tilted brows and loaded whispers, always dancing close to the edge of what Grace had staunchly denied for years and years.

 _Did you, though?_ She smiled, almost sadly, at the memory of Julia’s wedding. She’d been so stiff in Emmett’s arms. He’d probably thought she just didn’t know how to dance. Really, she’d been near-breathless, because it was _Emmett_.

It had been Emmett all along.

Grace squinted skyward and picked herself up from the garden bench. She’d been in Arizona for three days, sun-dry and deeply quiet in the moments when nobody else was watching, and all she could think was— _this is no solution._

Was it easier to think about Emmett, or the Fields? One was a source of sweeter pain than the other. There was, of course, no sweetness in the prospect of the Fields’ demise. It hung over her, day and night, in heavy dread. But for some irrational reason—maybe to cope?—she kept imagining a conversation where she told him all about it.

 _Ha._ As though Emmett, pampered prince of almost twenty-three, would have insight into the boring, crushing weight of failing finances.

_He would care about it because it’s you. You know that. You know that he cares about you._

She had always known that, if she let herself layer imagination with honesty. They were lifelong friends with intertwined families. And Grace was wholly in love with him, and Emmett had painted dozens of half-finished portraits of her, never satisfied, seemingly, because he didn’t feel that they had captured what made her _Grace_.

 _That_ brought a smile to her lips, but she shook her head in self-rebuke. _Emmett and Francesca. Emmett and Francesca. You know that’s what’s really going on, in one way or another. You can’t claim his heart just because you want it._

“Gracia!” Her mother was calling her inside. Her parents’ house was much smaller than the big farmhouse in Highbury, but still relatively spacious. Grace liked the open kitchen, even if it didn’t make her feel like home.

Strange. She’d thought the same thing when she visited Julia. Maybe she was meant to stay in Highbury forever.

“You baking already, Mama?”

“Christmas is in two days.” Mama offloaded a bowl of pumpkin pie filling to Grace. Grace stared at it, and swallowed her sigh. There wasn’t  much a fusion of American and Mexican food in the Caballero household; it had always been more of a crash.

“Are you sure we will need all this food, though? Julia and Ike aren’t coming.”

“They might stop by the day after. Here, I’ll get started on this batch of tamales—you do the pie.” Mama was bustling about at lightning speed. “I don’t know why they aren’t doing _something_. They could go to Ike’s family! Although I do think Helen is getting more and more…oh, you know… _como una cabra_. Always sick with something, whether the doctor agrees or not.”

Grace did know. She reached for a lump of pie dough, and floured it lightly. “I think she’s lonely.” She said it deliberately, without malice, but not without a little bit of pain.

“Lonely? She has her sons!”

“Not with her, not all the time.” Grace shrugged, attacking the dough with a rolling pin. “I guess sometimes people feel left behind.”

Her mother frowned. “Are you talking about Ellen, or yourself?”

Grace had laid the path, and now, only a moment later, she felt guilty for doing so. She had nothing to complain about on the score of being loved, did she?

In her mind she saw Emmett, face alight, when she said, _they’re all perfect._

She brushed the back of her hand against her forehead, probably leaving a streak of flour. _Well, now that you’ve started, you’d better finish_. “I do feel lonely sometimes,” she said. “I feel a little…left. I know that belongs to me, though. You weren’t wrong to retire and downsize—get a smaller house, I mean.” Her mother’s brow had wrinkled at _downsize_. “I just miss you and Papa a lot, and now that you’re…here, I don’t have the time I want to, to see you. And call you.”

Her mother crossed the kitchen and pulled her into a tight hug. Just as always, Mama smelled like chamomile. “Gracia,” Mama said firmly, “You just need to get married.”

All told, it was an easier conversation than the one she had with her father the next day.

He dropped his head in his hands when she had finished, as calmly as she could, with her explanation. “You were too young,” he said. “Too young, I shouldn’t have—”

Shame, Grace found, could steal away all the ways she found to keep her head up, day-in, day-out. In that moment, all the hours she’d spent with the books, the days in the fields, the times that Rosa and the other workers and yes, even Emmett had looked at her with admiration, with trust—all of it crumbled.

“I’m sorry you feel that way, Papa.” She spoke clearly. It was the last thing she could do.

“Don’t apologize. It’s _I_ who am sorry.”

Grace bit down hard, narrowly missing her tongue. “That’s just it. I don’t want you to feel sorry. There are a host of reasons why this is happening. I wanted to be honest with you, but I’m not backing out.”

“Not backing out?” He waved a hand. “Grace, you’re not going to have many other options. You can’t pull off another year—not with the way this one went!”

“Not with our current expenses.” Grace nodded. She felt her cheeks burning. She wanted to defend her income, point out that it was higher than his had been for years, and it was just the way everything else went down that had brought her to her knees. But that _would_ be childish. “Papa, please hear me. I know that I’m young. That shouldn’t matter. Not when we’re talking about the business you raised me in.” She flattened her fingers against her knees, praying that he would see more than his younger daughter in front of him. “I think there’s another way out.”

_ii._

Emmett was fond of Christmas. Or at least, he _had_ been. Before Dad—well, everything was at a different degree of fondness then, of course. But even after, a few years after, Christmas still maintained some glow of comfort. Gifts were mutually enjoyable. Grace always got him something thoughtful and practical, and he always got her something _so_ impractical that it concealed the hours of thought that went into it.

It was a good and necessary balance.

Christmas without Grace, which Emmett had suffered for four years of college, was even more of an insult to Christmas when he was back home. Home meant that Grace was supposed to _be there_.

All the same, he appreciated Harry’s company on Christmas day. Two days earlier, Harry had gotten the call: he’d been cast in the pilot. Emmett was as happy for him as could be, even if it _was_ tinged with the faint frustration that accompanied other people’s easy success.

_You never wanted to be an actor, remember? You shouldn’t begrudge him just because he got his big break without being otherwise brilliant._

Emmett’s big break was still sitting in an attic, half-finished. The thought turned a little sweeter when he remembered Grace’s praise again.

But that was being unfair to Harry. Big break or not—cheerful expression all through dinner or not—Harry had _also_ just suffered a crushing disappointment. Francesca and Jake? Even Grace had only hinted at it. The surprise had taken Highbury by storm. Emmett had been expecting Harry to dash over, despairing of happiness once again. Harry’s _silence_ on the subject had been almost as shocking as the event itself.

_Maybe he’s become sensible. More sensible than you would be, under the circumstances, anyway. Maybe his career is all he cares about now._

Emmett very much wanted answers, but he wasn’t going to bring the subject up. Sure, he’s shown more restraint than he had over the whole Marnie business, but he hadn’t exactly…discouraged this fancy of Harry’s. Grace would likely consider his internal reasoning selfish. It shouldn’t—didn’t—matter how much or how little Emmett had been involved; what mattered was that Harry was hurt.

 _And here they all were thinking that_ I _would be hurt_.

Noel had almost collapsed with relief when Emmett had set him straight. He and Ashley had been torn over it; they were happy for Francesca, certainly, while not approving of her secrecy—but they had been so, so sure that Emmett would be devastated.

 _“Me?”_ Emmett had shaken his head. _“No, no. I liked her for a week or two. It was quickly over.”_ When he’d said the words, he’d realized how shallow they made him sound, but he’d been grateful for the relief that had washed over Noel’s face.

 _“It was still…wrong,”_ Noel had said. _“She shouldn’t have led you on like that. She_ was _leading you on.”_

Privately, Emmett agreed—more for Harry’s sake than his own. _“I’m not one to be easily led,”_ he’d said, lightly, and that had brought everything back round to normality.

It had come out in bits and pieces; how Jake had very nearly broken it off on the camping trip, and how Francesca had called her mother and told her that if she didn’t give her blessing, she wasn’t coming back.

 _“Her blessing?”_ Emmett, with his own mother in mind, had known he was being a bit hypocritical, questioning such a thing. _“Why did that matter?”_

Money. That was it. Noel’s face had answered the question before he did.

 _Huh_. Suddenly Grace’s tireless dedication to differentiate herself from her parents’ legacy made sense. Emmett had always been too…well, too lazy to put much thought into it.

And still Harry said nothing!

It was after the midday dinner now, and Emmett was forcing himself to keep his foot from tapping restlessly. They were in the long front room, with a winter sunset blazing color and light through the windows. Harry was sprawled on one of the sofas and Emmett was sketching. Not Grace. For some reason, he was certain that it wasn’t quite the right time to attempt another portrait of Grace.

Harry stirred at last. “I can’t believe we haven’t…talked,” he began slowly. “About…the news.”

Emmett’s spine felt stiff to the point of cracking. Could you crack your spine in two from stress alone? He would find out shortly. “The news?”

Harry sat bolt upright. He looked—more excited than unhappy. He didn’t look unhappy at all. “Jake and Francesca! How bats—how crazy is that?”

“Pretty crazy,” Emmett agreed, rather faintly.  

“They were like, engaged _before_ she came out here! _And_ before he did! Like, we had _no_ idea. Man. I wish I was that good at keeping secrets.” Harry shook his head. “But don’t you think, like—I don’t know, they barely seemed to get along! And I thought—”

“Harry,” Emmett interrupted, able to stand it no longer, “Please…correct me if I _am_ wrong, but I thought that you…would take this harder.”

Harry stared at him. “Harder? What do you mean?”

“Because of Francesca.”

“What about her? Dude, I was worried about _you_.”

“Not necessary,” Emmett assured him, dangerously close to becoming embarrassed. “Harry, what about the accident? She _saved_ you. You told me you had feelings for her.”

Harry tipped back his head and laughed. In the tension of the moment, Emmett found it almost infuriating. “No, man. That wasn’t about _Francesca_.”

Emmett fought his way back through memory. What had Harry said, then, in the hospital?

_“…it’s still motivating, you know? When you have the best person in the world looking out for you?”_

He had no reason to feel so cold. “Harry, I know we agreed never to name names, but…if you’re not talking about Francesca, who _do_ you mean?”

“It’s Grace.” Harry let out a deep sigh, which was funny, because Emmett, all of a sudden, wasn’t breathing at all. “Wait. I thought you knew that. I thought you knew I was always talking about Grace.”

Emmett stood up and paced to the window. Half-set, the sun was somehow _blinding_ out. Everything was blinding. Everything was cast in the white light of revelation, and _God_ , why did Harry always take so long to finish a sentence?

“I mean, I don’t think she is interested in me,” Harry admitted humbly. Emmett inhaled at last. Then Harry added, “But…I don’t know. There’ve been some moments, you know? She’s so quiet, but—she’s always really sweet to me.”

“But you said—she saved you?”

“The wedding,” Harry said, like it was obvious. And maybe, oh maybe it was! “She stepped in the way of me getting _destroyed_.”

Emmett should have known. “That’s true,” he said hoarsely. “It was a lucky chance.”

“It was more than lucky!” Harry was disturbingly adamant on this point. “She was looking out for me, man. She was there. And when we went camping in the Redwoods, she talked to me…and we…we kind of had a moment.”

As if Harry knew anything about moments! Had Harry danced with Grace? Had Harry heard Grace say, _they’re all perfect_ , in soft attic light? Had Harry ever been _forgiven_ by Grace?

“You barely know her,” Emmett snapped. He didn’t mean for it to be cruel. He just—he couldn’t think of Grace being known and loved by Harry. Would she smile through her eyelashes for Harry? Would she _blush_? Would she move to Hollywood and watch him become a movie star?

Harry frowned. “I mean, I know it’s a long shot. I just…she’s the best. You must know that, right?”

Emmett had nothing to say.

Harry rose. He looked a little…bemused, or uncomfortable, and it was, as usual, Emmett’s fault. There was a distinct possibility that everything, ever, was Emmett’s fault.

“I’d better get going,” Harry said. “I have work tomorrow.”

Emmett nodded, still silent. He had done something a Woodhouse should never do: he had been inhospitable. And for what? He watched, through the wide windows, as Harry drove away.

It wouldn’t be home, here, without Grace. As it was, it was barely Christmas. Harry couldn’t love Grace, not because he shouldn’t, but because—well, because he simply couldn’t _know_ all the things that Grace needed.

Wait, that wasn’t it. He had got it the wrong way round: Harry _could_ love Grace, but he _shouldn’t_.

Emmett ran his hands through his hair and tugged. Nothing made sense and therefore, everything did. It was the only right and proper explanation, the only thing that made _home_ a place at all, the only reason for living and painting and—

“It’s Grace,” he echoed, aloud and hollow, and the sound of it rang in his ears and his heart and the whole sunset-filled room.


	35. Chapter XXXV

_“Till now threatened with its loss, he had never known how much of happiness depended on being first in interest and affection.”_

_i._

“Did I miss anything important, Rosa?” It was a futile question, Grace was sure. The numbers wouldn’t be any different. She glanced around her office, how the sunlight danced in every corner, and reminded herself that she was making the right choice, taking another way out.

“Important?” Rosa was breathless. “Didn’t you hear? Didn’t Mr. Em—I mean, you didn’t _hear_?”

“Hear what?” Grace stayed still to be certain; the earth did not noticeably move under their feet.

“Jake Fairfax and Francesca Church are _engaged_! They have been this whole time. Since before they came here. It had to be a secret because she didn’t know if her mother would cut her off or not.”

It was strange, when your heart broke for someone else’s heartbreak, after it had first broken for their love. She thought of Emmett, hands and eyes on Francesca, and wondered if _she_ had had even enough integrity to break the news to him.

Likely not.

Likely, he had heard from someone gleeful or ignorant, someone who knew the news would hurt him, or someone who never thought that he _could_ be hurt.

Grace stood up. “Wow. That…is pretty shocking.” The words sounded stupid as they fell from her lips. But what else was there to say? Rosa was her friend, but that didn’t mean she should know about the inner workings of Emmett’s heart.

“It really is.” Rosa shook her head. “Hey, I’m not even part of that crowd, but we hear things too. Highbury is a small town.” She was watching Grace carefully.

Grace kept her expression neutral. It _felt_ like a small town in this moment, much too small, even if she was perennially grateful that Rosa could call it her own. “I’m glad that there hasn’t been anything relating to Caballero Fields,” she said, choosing each word carefully. “I’ll go run some errands now.”

Rosa could see right through her, couldn’t she? Rosa must know more than the rest of Highbury. Rosa must have suspected long ago—

Grace didn’t walk to Hartfield; she drove. Exercise and fresh air be damned. It was only when she stood on the doorstep, hand poised to knock, that she wondered if Emmett would even want to see her.

 _I’ll go if he doesn’t want me_ , she thought desperately. And oh, Emmett’s heart might belong to someone else, but he _did_ always want to see Grace, didn’t he?

The alternative was, quite simply, unbearable.

Mrs. Woodhouse opened the door. To see her up and around, _greeting_ visitors, was a shock; the incongruity of it didn’t help Grace’s nerves. Had it really been only a week since Grace had found the paintings? Since she had let herself hope—

“Grace.” The lines around Mrs. Woodhouse’s mouth were deeper than usual. “You’re back. It isn’t even New Year’s.”

“Merry Christmas,” Grace offered. Her tongue felt thick in her mouth. “I…I just stopped by to see you…and to see Em—”

“Emmett’s gone,” Mrs. Woodhouse answered flatly, and she turned, leaving the door open behind her.

 _Gone?_ Like an arrow, like a bullet, and like neither of those things—it was only a word. Grace choked down her questions and followed Mrs. Woodhouse to the living room. “What—I mean, where did he go?”

Mrs. Woodhouse looked over her shoulder. She was more herself again, if only because she seemed to be on the verge of some agonized rant. “To _Connecticut!_ He wasn’t himself, Grace. He wasn’t himself at all. Why would he want to go back East? You know it’s cold there, this time of year…and he doesn’t have any friends from college, none he ever talks about…I just don’t know. I don’t know what’s gotten into him.” She sank into a chair that was conveniently near.

Grace twisted her hands together. “I’m very sorry for intruding, Mrs. W.” She bit her lip. “Is there something I can do for you?”

“No, no.” Mrs. Woodhouse waved a hand. “I mean…you could let me know if you hear from him. He won’t take any of my calls.”

Perhaps Grace was supposed to insist. Perhaps she should have stayed. But her heart was thumping in her ears and all she wanted was to go home.

Well, that wasn’t _all_ she wanted.

She sat in her car, hands on the wheel, and prayed. It was so like him, to run from tragedy—but likely take it with him all the same. She wondered if he had talked to anyone before he left. Did Harry know? Noel _must_ know—but had Emmett wanted to confide in someone who was so close to the situation?

And where did that leave Grace?

 _He didn’t want to see you. He left before you came home._ Once the thought was firmly there, it wouldn’t leave. And after all, after all that she had done—why _would_ Emmett want to be on the same _coastline_ as Grace? So that she could lord his mistakes over him? So that she could say, _if only you had thought this through?_

Once again, her grim reckonings had only driven something further between them. And now he was alone, three thousand miles away, and she couldn’t help him, because she had made clear that her help always came at a price.  

At least this all made her feel that she had very little left to lose. Grace was dry-eyed as she drove. It was time to say goodbye to many things.

The Hawkins house was one that she had always thought heavy and ugly, framed though it was by rolling grounds. It was modern and sprawling, and Grace, who loved beautiful things though she did not make them, would have recoiled from it if she could. Instead she tipped her head back, eyes up, and listened to her own silence.

 _Three thousand miles_.

Grace got out of the car. She walked with her shoulders back. If Marnie answered the door, she thought, that would just add a little more humiliation to the day.

Marnie didn’t answer the door.

“Grace?” August’s heavy eyebrows were halfway up his forehead.

“Hello, August,” Grace said. _We do what we must_. There were tragedies that could not be run from. She knew that Emmett knew that, too. “There’s something I’d like to discuss.”

_ii._

It has been met May. May when he left, after graduation—and May when he had first visited, with Mom and Noel, daring Mom to order him not to go so far away.

She had, and then he went anyway. At the time—at eighteen—he had been overcome by all the perverseness of rebellion borne of uncertainty. It was like whatever she wanted from him didn't end up being what he wanted at all.

He wasn't sure what he had thought he would find here, whether he would find the answer to loving Grace somewhere buried in the past, or whether he didn't deserve to be anywhere else but as far away from Grace and home as he could be.

This was the end of his journey: to be in gray-blue, when he had always dreamed of being golden.

Emmett was restless, but that signified nothing. All his life he had been running, towards or away, to whatever was missing, from whatever might be missed. He couldn't stay still, and he was beginning to think that he couldn't stay.

Connecticut, icy with winter, was no comfort. Snow on the ground, slush on the walkways. He tramped up the paved mall at the entrance of his old campus, hands in his pockets.

He had four missed calls from Mom. Four voicemails, too, all probably long and meandering. She was worried. He didn’t think she should be. It wasn’t that sort of trouble. It was nothing but his own fault.

The art gallery he’d liked best in four years was three floors up in the oldest hall—a pillared brick structure, with an actual cupola atop it. One appreciated a cupola when one saw it.

Emmett wasn’t sure if it would be open, but the heavy door—iron handle sticky with frost—swung wide.

The steps echoed under his feet. The whole place seemed to hollow itself out around him—a cocoon of memory, void of members. There was nobody here to greet him. It struck home, even though he was as far from home as he could be.

There was none of his work in the gallery. It was filled with freshman projects. Some of them were good; some abysmal. He paused in front of an atrocious still life, smiling in spite of himself. Failure was universal, but someone had been proud of this all the same. The two, perhaps, could both exist.

His phone was ringing again.

Emmett looked down at it, because—

_What if Grace—_

It was a number he didn’t know.  He picked up.

“Hey.”

“Emmett?”

“Speaking.” Emmett cradled the phone on his shoulder and rubbed his hands together. Dammit, it was cold.

“It’s Jake. Jake Fairfax.”

Emmett figured that Jake Fairfax would be more awkward over the phone than in person, if such a thing were possible. But hey, life sucked anyway, didn’t it? “Oh. Um, how’s it going?”

“I heard you were in Connecticut.”

One of the natural side effects of dramatic travel was that people found out about it, and likely drew their own conclusions therefrom. “Yeah,” Emmett said. “Vacation.”

“I’m very sorry,” Jake said. He didn’t sound stiff, for once. Just quiet. Maybe _stiff_ and _just quiet_ were closer than Emmett had been wont to give them credit for. “I think you got hurt.”

Emmett shook his head. It was easier than speaking, but then he remembered that Jake couldn’t see him. “I didn’t get hurt,” he said. And it was true. A little embarrassment at being hoodwinked wasn’t the same as pain. He could see that, now. “But…I think I owe you an apology. For being—you know, for being a dick. At various, near-constant points.”

Jake laughed. Actually laughed. It was a transformative sound, coming from him. “It wasn’t a great situation. I wanted to own to my part of it, and I’m glad there was—less crossfire than I had thought.”

He’d been so jealous of Jake. Jealous, because Jake was reserved and talented, someone for Grace to admire. And yet it turned out that Jake had never spared a thought like that for Grace, just as Emmett had soon realized that Francesca wasn’t the one after all.

“Will you stay in California?” He was making small talk. With Jake Fairfax. Emmett paced through the echoing gallery again. Wonders never ceased.

“I don’t think so, no,” Jake answered. “I’ve got some gigs lined up in New York. And Frankie would like to see her mom again.”

Leaving, then, just when Emmett realized a threat wasn’t a threat at all. “I wish you both the best,” he said. “Really, I do. I’m sorry if I made your life harder out here.”

“I hope our paths cross again,” Jake said, which was gracious of him. More gracious than Emmett ever seemed to manage. “Thanks for taking my call.”

He stayed there, still, for a long time after he hung up. So Jake and Francesca would be happy. He found he didn’t mind. Didn’t mind at all that Jake would be relieved from suffering. Unlike Emmett, Jake hadn’t _deserved_ to suffer. He’d just pulled a number of bad straws from life.

Emmett, on the other hand, had been surrounded by fortune, and had appreciated none of it.

How long did he think that Grace would stay comfortably in his periphery—dependable, satisfying, absolute? He hadn’t given enough thought or heart to how that relegated her to second place. How it wasn’t fair to expect that her life would serve his.

He had been selfish, as his mother was selfish, and he had let it last and last, until there was no chance for a different ending. He had never earned the right to Grace’s friendship, much less her love.

Perhaps he should stay in Connecticut forever.

He missed her. Grace. This, at last, was what it to meant to be in love—to have a heart so swallowed up by longing that the pain was only as unbearable as it was necessary. Once recognized, it could never be anything else but permanent.

And of this, he was truly sure.


	36. Chapter XXXVI

_“No friends had deserted them, no pleasures had been lost.”_

_i._

The rumors got out. That was what rumors did, after all. Grace had known what would happen when she knocked on August Hawkin’s door.

What the truth was, and what everyone in Highbury whispered it to be were, of course, very different things.

If Emmett had been at home—

She imagined punches thrown. Through gritted teeth and closed doors, _I’m going to kill them_ , and—

—would there ever come a time where the memory of _that_ _night_ didn’t strike its way through Grace like a lightning bolt?

She was beginning to wonder if he would come back at all. Of course, it had only been days. Emmett was wealthy and whimsical, even in grief. He might be gone a week, or a month—but that very whimsy made her fear a longer separation.

And even when—if—he did come back to California, she knew that she’d have to look into his eyes and see, forever, the loss of Francesca there.

It might fade, and falter. It must lessen over time. But it would hold fast to a little piece of his heart, and all memories that Grace might have glorified in the past months of growing closer—of growing at all—would be sullied for Emmett to the end of time.

She’d loved. He’d lost. The two weren’t even connected.

Julia kept trying to call her. Grace was avoiding her. She had faced so much of the world—wasn’t she allowed to avoid her own sister? Julia would know all the right questions to ask, and Grace couldn’t keep her chin high _and_ give all the right answers at the same time.

Two days after the rumors began (so, two-and-a-half days after meeting with August), someone was knocking at the door. Had they dared to come so close, the whisperers? She glanced down to where Paco had festooned himself around her feet. Did he look grayer, all of a sudden?

Paco was getting old, and Grace _felt_ old, though she wasn’t.

“Coming!” she shouted through the house. Bad manners, Mama would have said.

Grace opened the door, surprised. “Harry?”

He was scarlet-faced, staring at his shoes. “I hope you don’t mind me just…showing up,” he mumbled, after a long pause. “I just—I brought you Mr. Goddard’s Christmas card.”

Grace refrained from observing that he could have mailed it—that Mr. Goddard could have mailed it. It was…curious. The pretense was obvious. Harry was not a gossip, but surely he must want to know something. Was it on Emmett’s behalf?

He shuffled from one foot to the other. Grace remembered in that moment that Harry was going to Hollywood; he’d gotten a part. Maybe, in some things, success did not bring confidence. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have assumed you were free.”

“No, it’s fine.” She beckoned. She was tired, not unfriendly. She liked Harry very well. Emmett had been right about him. Emmett could see hearts sometimes, just not all the time—and wasn’t that very much like everyone else? “Come in, Harry. Don’t mind Paco. He can be a little jumpy when he’s excited.”

Paco took to Harry quickly. And of course Harry was a dog person. He didn’t have Emmett’s nerves. She felt that little twist and torture in her chest, thinking about Emmett for the third time in as many minutes, and reminded herself that she should stay in the present. Emmett, at present, wasn’t here.

Harry sat on the sofa, hunched more than he needed to be. It wasn’t a small space, but she could tell he wanted to be smaller in it.

“Grace,” he said, out of breath, “I—”

“I never congratulated,” Grace said, not meaning to interrupt. “About the show. That’s wonderful, Harry. How many people can say that they got a part in their first year out here? You got snatched up, practically.”

“I mean, it’s a reach.” Harry ran a hand over the back of his neck. “If the pilot doesn’t get picked up…I’m back to square one. All I’ve done is some smaller parts. Student films, you know. A couple independent projects. Nothing for Sundance, or anything like that.”

“I didn’t know you had much prior experience,” Grace said. You learned new things about people every day. “Was that before you came out here?” A stupid question. Of course it was.

He nodded. “Yeah, there were some opportunities out east, but not enough. At least it helped when I was looking for an agent.”

She wondered what he was like onscreen. She supposed she would have a chance to find out, now. Maybe the heart that Emmett had noticed first was more visible when Harry didn’t have to be mundane in a mundane world.

“Grace.” His tone had changed again—he had sounded a little desperate when he first arrived, and he sounded so again. On edge. She wondered what was wrong. “Can I talk to you about—”

“Grace?”

 _Crap._ Rosa was standing in the doorway. She had the morning mail in hand. It crackled as she clenched her fingers.

Grace was never sure, afterwards, who saw the other first. But Rosa and Harry were both blushing all at once, and Grace couldn’t shake the feeling that _she_ was supposed to do something.

“Rosa,” Harry said. “Um…hi.”

“Hi,” Rosa said. She bit her lip. “I should go.”

“No, no!” Harry bolted up off the sofa. Paco whined. “I should—I should be the one to go.”

Grace decided that she was wholly done with heartache. She stood, and kept her chin up. “I hope you don’t mind my saying it,” she said, hoping that her tone was sufficiently inexorable, “But I think you two might have some things to discuss.” _Oh, what the hell_. No more heartache. “Some _misunderstandings_. I’m going to go get some tea. If either of you would like, I’ll make a big pot.”

And then she walked out, and shut the door behind her.

It occurred to her a moment later that Harry—earnest and simple as he was—had almost seemed on the point of a very different declaration. But no—when she had left the room, his eyes had been on Rosa, and Rosa alone.

Emmett was three thousand miles away. For that, Grace could not be grateful, but she also believed herself to be right. She heard their voices behind the door, rising and falling. More than whispers.

She waited—she heard Rosa laugh.

And Grace murmured, “No more heartache,” and went to brew her tea.

_ii._

Hotels, even nice ones, seemed stagnant after the first few nights. Emmett, scarf-swathed, drove to the coastline.  There was snow layered over sand. The waves, unfettered by ice, of course, swallowed the lip of the shore again and again.

He could write her a love letter.

He could also walk into the ocean and never come out again.

Emmett heaved in a breath of clear air, as though it would cleanse him. Surely, the ashes of things past had settled in his lungs. Grace had not tried to call him, or text him, or—

She was probably still in Arizona. He drove back to the hotel and shut himself up in the room, trapped once more by air that wasn’t clear at all.

When his phone rang, he half expected Francesca, wanting to tell her side of the story, and reestablish her reigning role. Talking with Jake had been (strangely) fine.

He didn’t want to talk to Francesca.

It wasn’t Francesca. “Hey, Julia.”

“You are _such_ an idiot.”

Emmett had spent the better part of twenty-three years—or as many of them as he remembered—bridling against Julia’s insults. He was surprised, then, to find that he agreed with her. “Yeah, and?”

“ _Why_ are you in Connecticut?”

A question, certainly. Not one he planned on answering in detail. “I had to figure some stuff out.”

Julia sighed explosively. Sometimes—often—she drove him crazy, but he already had her for a sister-in-law, and, given all circumstances, he very much wanted to repeat that occurrence. “Why are you in Connecticut, you big dumb bag of paintbrushes?”

“Is that the best you can do? Insult me as an artist?”

“You’re no Rembrandt,” she sneered. “Come on, Emmett. _Please_ tell me this isn’t because of that goddamn Francesca Church.”

He parted the hotel blinds with a finger. He was four floors up, looking over a parking lot that was ringed in gray-salted drifts. “It’s not.” And then he realized he had said too much. Because if the world _was_ shifted one degree over, everyone would _know_.

(If the world was shifted one degree over, maybe Grace would love him back.)

Julia’s silence was unnaturally long. Finally, she said, “I guess you’re not an idiot on _that_ score, then.”

“I was. It was a passing thing.” And that was the secret of Emmett: most of life was composed of passing things. But Grace? She didn’t just pass the test of time; she _was_ time, unyielding and always on all sides.

“Hmm. I called you to be sympathetic, if that was what you needed.”  Julia dropped something on the floor, and it clanged, and she swore. “Anyway, that didn’t last. So it’s good you didn’t need it.” She paused. “Unless you _do_ , but I think…”

“What do you think, exactly?” It came out sharply, but not because he was angry. Because Julia was Grace’s sister, and if anyone could ever give him hope—

“On to my second topic of conversation.” Julia forged onward, instead of gratifying his unspoken wish. “It seems you really _are_ the axis of Highbury life, Emmett. When you take a vacation, everything else goes to _shit_.”

He was three thousand miles from home. It struck him then, as it rarely had in college. As it hadn’t for the past few days. Distance was protection, until something was wrong somewhere else. “What do you mean?”

“You didn’t hear? She didn’t tell you?” Damn it all, why did Julia always get to sound _knowing_?

“Tell me what?” For a second of madness, he was certain Harry had won. Grace and Harry, the names inextricable, bringing to bear his worst fear—the work of his own hands.

“Grace is selling the Fields.” Julia had never sounded so deflated. “She can’t turn enough of a profit to stay in business, and August Hawkins apparently has the capital to make it work. Dad is all worked up about it, but he and Grace came to some agreement when she was down over Christmas.”

Emmett said nothing. It was not exactly what he had feared. It was somehow worse, because yes, a moment ago, he had _still_ been thinking of himself—thinking of how Grace’s life, in all its divergence from his, could hurt _him_. He hadn’t thought about the things _Grace_ had to lose. When would he learn? Would there ever be a time where _shame_ didn’t follow every impulse, only by righteous afterthought?

“I didn’t know,” he said, very quietly.

“She won’t take my calls,” Julia said. “She loved that place. All our lives, I think she thought it was going to be in the family forever. And then Mom and Dad dumped it on her—don’t think I don’t know that—and now she has to let it go. It’s not her fault, of course.”

As if Emmett would say so!

“It’s good to be selfish, isn’t it, Em?” A cynical edge had crept into Julia’s voice. “You and I, we know that. I saw it all coming from a mile away, and married Ike and left. I wasn’t going to get saddled with a family legacy.”

Emmett bit his lip, hard. It didn’t help. Pain could not, after all, replace pain.

“It’s always Grace.” Julia sighed again. “She’s the one who has to carry it all. How many times have _you_ let her?”

Julia _must_ know. Emmett’s throat felt too tight to speak, but he managed all the same. “I have to go,” he said thickly.

He could _hear_ her smirk. “I bet you do.”

He was already packing when she hung up, grabbing shirts with one hand and stuffing them recklessly— _unfolded_ —into his suitcase.

He’d been away too long.


	37. Chapter XXXVII

_“They walked together. He was silent. She thought he was often looking at her, and trying for a fuller view of her face than it suited her to give.”_

_i._

Grace had always loved to spend early winter afternoons walking the rows. Granted, the land was lumpy and unremarkable—planted and sheltered. It was patient, without even a promise yet of what would come later.

Patient. The sun was still high and the air was cool, and she could _think_.

Think, and remember.

Paco followed her dutifully, trotting carefully along the appointed paths. Paco was a good dog for fields. He had learned from puppyhood not to trample anything that Grace didn’t trample.

Grace was glad to be alone. She had visited Arthur after church, as she always did, and he had bombarded her with so many questions her head was spinning half-an-hour later.

“Nothing is final, Arthur. Nothing is final,” she had repeated, as though it would do any good.

She blinked skyward, hoping that a few tears—or at least, a sting against her eyelids—could be forgiven.

She was glad to be alone. She wasn’t glad to be lonely.

Paco whined.

“What is it?”

He started barking. It was his happy bark. Grace spun around. There _was_ someone, all the way at the end of the rows, walking towards her. She told herself that she didn’t know who it was, in the glare of the sun—didn’t _dare_ know who it was—

But Grace was done with lying, even to herself.

_Emmett._

“Grace!”

Her heartbeat seemed to fill her chest, to fill _more_ than her chest, spreading to every fingertip and pulse-point.

He’d reached her. He looked—tired. Rumpled. A little wild in the eyes.

Grace loved him.

“Hi,” Emmett said. He sounded nervous. “You’re here.”

Where else would she be? Grace wondered what he knew.

“You came back,” Grace said. She wanted to hug him, but her hands stayed at her sides, useless.

He seemed surprised. “Oh, right. Yeah. I—I just needed…” He swallowed hard, eyes wide. “Grace, um…”

They’d never been so tongue-tied around each other. It must be her, radiating the longing she’d hidden for so long, and him, suffering from his own differently-directed heart.

Grace lifted a hand and rested it gently on his arm. He tensed under her touch. “Do you want to take a walk?”

He followed her out of the row. Side-by-side, they walked the edge of the field. Emmett had his hands in his pockets. Grace chewed her lip.

“Are you doing OK?” She had to say it. She had to ask. She was his friend. His oldest friend, even if she wasn’t the dearest or most interesting. “With…everything that happened?”

“What happened?” He had stopped short and was looking at her.

Grace’s brow furrowed. She had wanted to play it subtle, not say something so blunt as to hurt him. “With Francesca,” she said softly. “And…Jake. I’m—I’m so sorry.”

Emmett’s brows arched. “Sorry?”

Maybe she was never as close to understanding him as she believed herself to be. “Emmett.” Each word hurt. “It’s alright. I know you loved her.”

“No, no,” Emmett answered, with surprising quickness. And if he wasn’t smiling, he also didn’t look like he was in pain.

Grace felt frozen in place, but the hurt, at least, slipped away. Then Emmett said, “She wasn’t the one I loved.”

Grace’s eyes were stinging, but she wasn’t alone, and she couldn’t cry. She would have given anything to make a different ending, where she wasn’t in the dark, where _she_ was the one who had earned the right to know. “Is there someone you love?”

Emmett flushed scarlet, belying any answer that might follow. “I didn’t mean it like that,” Emmett mumbled. “I just meant, I wasn’t in love with _her_.”

 _Take relief where you can find it_. “Oh.” Grace began walking again. He matched her pace. “I’m so glad, Emmett. That—that you weren’t hurt. It was…it was killing me, to think that…”

“That I’d been taken in?” There, that was more like his old self. “No. Maybe for a moment. But only because of how much we were alike, she and I.” He laughed, a little bitterly. “I guess I’m doomed to love a mirror most of all.”

“That’s not true!” It came out sharper than she meant it to. “You’re not like her. She knew what she was doing, playing with people’s lives, and just because…well, just because you didn’t get burned doesn’t mean it wasn’t wrong. She’s used to getting her way. Hell, she’ll probably be _forgiven_ for everything! As if Jake wasn’t tormented the whole time. As if you weren’t—well, taken in, even for a moment.”

“You really hate her.” Emmett’s eyes glinted. He was _amused_.

That look—that teasing look—always did something to her insides. Of course, she knew what it was now. “I try not to hate _anyone_ ,” Grace returned firmly. “But no, I’m not very fond of Francesca Church and the way she cares more about herself than anyone else.”

The smirk vanished. “Selfishness,” Emmett said, “Is a very unattractive trait.”

He must think she was talking about _him_. “She doesn’t seem like the sort of person who grows from their mistakes,” Grace said. “That’s what bothers me.”

Emmett cleared his throat. How did he always stand, with the sun behind him, so that all the edges of his hair and shoulders were gold? “Grace, I didn’t come back to talk to you about Francesca.”

He’d come back…to talk to _her_?

“What’s going on?”

“Julia called me.” He was serious, but not like he’d been when he told her about his father. No, this was Emmet all grown up. A little grim in the eyes, stern and focused. “She told me you’re selling the farm to August Hawkins.”

“That’s…” For the first time, Grace spoke the truth aloud. “That’s not true.”

“What?”

“The business is failing,” Grace said. “Or, it’s doomed to fail. I don’t know if the distinction matters, at this point. But I have to do something.” She amended slightly, “Something that doesn’t involve cutting workers’ wages, that is.”

“So what are you going to do?” Had he ever been so—still? Not a restless nerve in sight.

“I’m going to sell the house to August. The Fields stay in the family, I downsize to an apartment, and it gets us the capital we need. He’s willing to pay a pretty good sum. You know he’s always liked the location.” It was off her chest, at last. No more rumors. No more heartache—but that last was harder to accomplish. “Really, Em? You thought I’d put my business in his grimy hands?”

“I didn’t know what to think.” Emmett heaved a sigh. His smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Julia was so adamant. I thought she’d know.”

“My family doesn’t listen to me,” Grace told him. “They love me, but they don’t listen.”

“None of us do,” Emmett said. His eyes were very green, and they didn’t leave hers for such a long moment that Grace knew with dreadful certainty that she was blushing. “Not as much as we should.”

“So now you know,” Grace said, turning away. If he kept looking at her like that, she’d do something very foolish, like try to kiss him. “I’m just selling the castle, not the country.”

“You don’t have to do either.”

Grace wheeled around. “What?”

“I came back to tell you,” Emmett said, and he was still serious, but there was that little edge of desperation, that she knew so well. “If it’s capital you need, I’ll be your investor. Grace, the Foundation is taking care of itself. Mom and I are more than comfortable. It’s about time I did something for our community, more than just…screwing around with everyone’s lives and patience, you know?”

“I don’t take charity,” Grace murmured faintly.

Emmett laughed. “Charity? It’s not charity, Grace. You know that. It’s business. You think we don’t need, now, more than ever, a company that takes care of its workers? I know it’s not revenue that’s the issue—it’s your overhead. Let me…not _help_ , but be a part of this. Please. You don’t have to go live in some shoebox and hand over your house to _August Hawkins_.”

Grace hugged him. It wasn’t a particularly _smart_ idea, because she _was_ doing her best to keep it together, to keep hidden the fundamental secret of her heart and all that—but surely, she could be a fool for just a moment.

He held her like she was about to break. His hands ghosted lightly over her back, barely pressing, but he rested his forehead against the curve of her shoulder for a moment, and that was enough.

“Thank you,” Grace whispered, against his hair. “I promise to be an utterly professional business partner. You won’t regret your investment.”

They parted after a moment. Something had changed. Breathing wasn’t simple at all. And what, really, was holding them apart? What would ever come between them, what disagreement—

Grace remembered _something_. Oh, the curses of a practical mind! The one disagreement that had festered between them for so long, the thing that had made her angry, had made her feel isolated from him…and about which she wasn’t certain that he had ever changed his mind.

“Emmett,” she said, “Just in the interest of full disclosure, have you talked to Harry lately?”

He went stiff, pale. The opposite of a blush, and worse than the opposite of what they’d just shared.

“I just got home,” he said, dully. “So…no.”

“Oh.” She’d said the wrong thing, when she was just trying to be honest. But maybe she’d overstepped. “Ok,” she said. “Well, I’m so grateful, Emmett. I really am. I want you to know—well, you deserve the same deal I gave to August. You can take time to think about it.”

“I don’t need time,” he said. “I meant it, Grace. The offer stands.”

She nodded. “Then we can talk details tomorrow?” She was suddenly, achingly sure that he wanted to leave.

He smiled. He was looking at her, still pale, but also as if he didn’t want to forget what she looked like. “Sounds like a plan.” And then, almost on cue: “I should go. Still haven’t really—checked in with Mom.”

He’d come here first? Grace’s traitorous heart skipped yet another beat. “Please give her my best,” she said. “Tell her she has a good son.”

Emmett ducked his head. “She thought that even when she shouldn’t.”

_ii._

Mom was first full of questions, and then of complaints. Where he had been? She had been sick with worry. Yes, she’d _known_ he was going to Connecticut—but where in Connecticut? He was done with school. He wasn’t planning on a Master’s degree, was he? He was brilliant. He didn’t _need_ another degree. If he left her again, she was sure a heart attack would follow in short order. Did he want her to call a doctor? Was _he_ in danger of a heart attack?

Emmett thought he might be, for a very different reason, but didn’t say so. He avoided his studio, shutting himself in his bedroom instead.

He had gone to Grace offering—almost everything. _Almost_. There _was_ something he’d held back, and Grace, being Grace, had set her finger on it at once.

_Have you talked to Harry lately?_

Emmett didn’t eat dinner. He unpacked, almost feverish with neatness, with the need to put something (anything) in order. He had dared the universe one last time; held back in generosity when he should have known that such a thing made a mockery of any good impulse.

Grace had been willing to sell her childhood home so that she didn’t have to change the way she ran her business. The way she paid fair wages, and the way she made her workers’ lives part of her life.

Grace never held back her generosity.

Even if that meant sacrificing her freedom.

Emmett had another offer to make, and he knew it.

He showered and shaved and climbed the steps to his studio. He lifted each sketch and canvas from its place with reverence, laid them all together. Eyes over eyes and the soft curls of charcoal hair, the brushed warmth of a rose-colored gown. Grace, descending a staircase, still so far above him.

He could burn them, but he was too damn sentimental.

Walking to Grace’s would take too long. If he waited, he would lose his nerve.

In the end, it was ironic—he was nothing without his nerves.

She kept a porch light on, always. He looked up at the house and remembered loving it as a kid, remembered loving the long fields where even the soil seemed to be alive. The views from the upstairs windows.

All that time, he’d been loving Grace.

The house was just where love _lived_.

Emmett ran a hand over his eyes. The worst possible way to handle what he had to do next would be to look like he’d been crying.

Emmett knocked. The many times he’d rushed confidently up those steps, opened the door with barely a knock—they were precious, now, only because they were gone.

He heard her coming down the stairs. Heard the handle turn.

“Hi,” she said. She sounded surprised. She looked beautiful. How had he let her exist by his side without recognizing that he might _lose_ her?

“Grace,” he said. “It’s about the offer.”

Her face fell. He knew the resignation that lined her jaw. Knew it, and hated how often it had been directed at him. “It won’t work,” she said. “I understand.”

“No, no.” He wasn’t going to let her down, not this time. “The offer stands. There’s just something else I need to tell you about it.”

Her eyebrows lifted, a wing-like tilt. “Something else? Do you want to come in?”

He wouldn’t be able to leave if he came inside. “No, thank you. It’ll just take a minute.”

She waited.

“Harry’s going to Hollywood.” Emmett kept going, talking like he was running. Like this was something he could get _through_. “I wanted to let you know that—my offer goes further. I’ll arrange for management to oversee the operation of the Fields. Everything pre-approved by you. You can do it all remotely.” The next words seemed like they would never come. “You…you can go with him.”

He watched, unable to move, as Grace’s jaw actually dropped. She was staring at him. Grace was—

_Dumfounded?_

“Why?” She asked at last. She sounded on the verge of hysterics. “ _Why_ would I want to go to Hollywood with _Harry_?”

She was going to make him say it, wasn’t she? Emmet bit his lip so hard he was certain he tasted blood. “Because I want you to be with the person you love.”

Three things happened, in an order that he could, later, never quite be sure of: Grace shrieked, called him an idiot (sounding more like Julia than she ever had), and ran away.

“Grace!” Emmett sprinted after her. (So much for being unable to leave if he went inside.)

He found her in the kitchen, leaning against a counter, drinking a glass of water.

“Grace, are you alright?”

She looked like she was about to cry. “Emmett, I have to tell you something. And if you—if it ruins our friendship—”

“You can tell me anything.”   _Even if it’s that you love Harry._

“Really?”

“Really. You’re…” He needed to comfort her, make her feel safe. Something. He’d upset her, and he had to do _something_. “Just—just think of me as…” _God_ , he hated this. “Your brother.” Teeth gritted. “Just think of me like a brother, and tell me what’s bothering you.”

Grace started laughing. It was high-pitched and unnatural and he wanted to hold her but that would just give it all away.

“Like a brother,” she said. “Don’t you get it, Em? Oh, _God_. I don’t love Harry. I’m not in love with _Harry_.”

He could have dropped to his knees. Offered a prayer to a deity he was suddenly much more sure of. “OK.”

“I _cannot_ talk to you like a _brother_ about this.”

“Don’t think of me like a brother, then.” Emmett raked his hands through his hair. “Um…think of me like a friendly, neutral, utterly un-neurotic stranger. Everything that I’m not.” He chuckled. What was there to do, but laugh? “I’ve always hated the brother analogy anyway.” If only she _knew_.

“Really?” A tear slipped down Grace’s cheek. “Me too.”

“Great,” he said. “OK, so, as a friendly stranger, what is you want to tell me?”

“I’m not good at speeches,” Grace whispered, and Emmett’s heart did something very strange: it _leapt_.

 “I’ve never had much attention span,” he whispered back. “So you can keep it short, if you want.”

Grace set down her glass of water and crossed the kitchen floor. She moved deliberately, as if it was the last thing she would ever do. She came close—so close that Emmett quite stopped breathing—and set her hands on his shoulders. Then she lifted herself up—up—up—

Grace kissed him. Emmett kissed her back.

It was as simple as that.

But in another moment, it wasn’t simple at all. Because Grace’s hands had linked together behind his neck, and his hands were on her waist, and her mouth opened under his and Emmett was lost, lost before he was found. He hoped the _finding_ took a very long time.

Breath and thoughts were both forgotten. Time passed, but it passed sweetly around them, with nothing at all interfering with what passed _between_ them.

Grace parted her lips from his. She kept her hands where they were. “Was that a short enough explanation?”

Emmett was devoid, probably forever, of witty comebacks. The best he could manage was, “You still have my attention.”

Grace leaned in, deliciously close, and murmured, “If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more.”

There it was again; the leap. “You love me?”

Grace laughed. “What do you think I kissed you for, you silly boy?”

“True. You’re not the kind to mix signals.”  Emmett darted in for a kiss again, and she wasn’t quick enough to dodge it. “In case you’re wondering, the feeling is mutual. I love you, Grace. I love you, I love you, I love you.”

She pressed her lips against the line of his jaw and it made him go almost wild. “When did you know?”

“When Harry told me he loved you. You?”

Her fingertips grazed the nape of his neck and yeah, that made him a little wild too. “When you gave me your jacket at the wedding, after the punch disaster.”

Emmett realized something. “You were in love with me when—when we camping?”

“Mmhmm.”

“Is that why you got so pissed off at me?”

“Mmhmm.”

Two could play at this game. Emmett leaned in and pressed a light kiss just below her ear. She shivered against him, which only made him sure that he’d have to do it again. “I was very dense. I loved you when walked down the stairs in Julia’s dress, and I loved you when you told me you wanted to kill Marnie, and I loved you when I left for college—I just didn’t let myself know it. I guess I’d decided a long time ago that I didn’t deserve to.” Before she could say anything, or argue, he went on. “Remember at Ike’s wedding? When we danced?”

Grace nodded. Her eyes were soft, almost black in the half-light.

“You looked so beautiful. I thought about kissing you. I thought about kissing you lot, Grace. Ever since I was about nine. I just—I thought it was only because I wanted to get a rise out of you.”

Another tear. But she seemed happy. Yes, Grace was happy. He knew that now. “Then why did you never do it?”

“Swear I’ll make it up to you,” Emmett said, and did his best.


	38. Chapter XXXVIII

_“Seldom, very seldom, does complete truth belong to any human disclosure; seldom can it happen that something is not a little disguised, or a little mistaken; but where, as in this case, though the conduct is mistaken, the feelings are not, it may not be very material.”_

_i._

“Is this how it’s going to be? Six in the morning?”

“With coffee.” Emmett was beaming. “You’re a good Catholic girl. We have to keep decent hours, right? So I say: start early.” He leaned down and kissed her.

Grace had pleasant, constant sensation of being perfectly happy. She wondered how long it would last, but the wonderment didn’t arise to fear. Not when Emmett’s face was so close to hers.

The coffee was piping hot. “You remembered my order?”

“You drink it black, darling.” He practically waltzed inside, with his own towering confection in hand. “Not hard to recall.”

“We have a lot to discuss, Em.”

“Kissing first,” Emmett insisted, slinging an arm around her waist. “That’s the order of business.”

Grace melted against him. Funny, how years of dreams could coalesce in moments. They ended up side-by-side on the sofa under the bay windows, fingers interlaced.

“Do we have to talk about boring stuff like investments now?”

Grace punched him lightly on the arm with her free hand. “Come on! Don’t you want to be my savior?”

“You’re already mine. Seems fair.” Emmett grinned down at her. “Yes. I promise to be patient while we talk numbers. Here’s mine: all my money, yours.”

“That’s not how this works.” Grace laughed. She’d always been too hard on him when sometimes, he was just being himself. “I mean, we have some housekeeping to do.”

“I certainly hope so.”

Her heart fluttered. “You said you think that Harry’s in love with me?”

“Oh, he is. Told me over Christmas.” Emmett sighed deeply. “Pretty much destroyed me, if we’re being honest, but now I just feel bad for him.”

“Well,” Grace said slowly, “You don’t _have_ to…although this does brush up on one of our longest standing disagreements.”

“I agree with everything you think now.”

“Not necessary.” Grace squeezed his hand. “I think a…Harry and Rosa reconciliation is in our near future.”

To her immense relief, Emmett’s smile grew even wider. “I’m glad.”

“I thought you hated them together.”

“I _think_ I was an idiot.”

“I was wrong too.” Grace leaned her temple against his shoulder. “About Harry. He’s a good guy. He’s got a really—pure heart, and I think he’s going to need that if his career takes off.”

Emmett pressed a kiss against her hair. “And you think he’s going to need Rosa too?”

“I do.” She lifted her head a little so she could look him in the eye. “Nothing like a sensible woman to steady someone, you know?”

This time, the kiss was for her lips. “I do,” Emmett breathed against her. “I do know.”

“That’s what I meant, by the way, when I asked if you should talk to him,” Grace added. “You thought I meant I was in love him, didn’t you?”

“You witnessed the near-death of me, yeah.”  

“Glad we worked that out.” Grace turned, lifting her knees over his. “You _should_ talk to him, though. I bet he feels conflicted. Your approval matters a lot to him.”

“It shouldn’t.” Emmett rested his palm against her shin. “I’m lucky in the people-who-care-about-me department.”

“We’re all lucky to be loved,” Grace told him.

She was surprised when he sighed. Then he said, “Mom,” and she understood.

“Oh, right.” Mrs. Woodhouse had never seemed particularly intimidating before, but Grace had also never been dating her favorite son. She didn’t plan on pulling a Julia, living out the future in poorly concealed animosity. “Do you want me to talk to her?”

Emmett shook his head. “No. I’ve got to be the one does it. The good thing is, she likes you. A lot. The not-so-good thing is…”

“Everything else?” Grace traced her fingers down his cheek. “Don’t worry. I know what I’m getting into.”

“A very lucrative business partner who also happens to adore you?”

“We’ve graduated from love to adore in less than twenty-four hours.”

“I own many thesauruses,” Emmett whispered. “How’s that for seduction? I will use every possible word for love. Worship. Adulate. Venerate.”

“More than words,” Grace said, shushing him with a quick kiss, “I want something.”

“Name it.”

She felt herself blushing. Emmett noticed too, and seemed delighted.

“I want,” Grace said, “For you to paint me.”

Emmett bit his lip. “I’ve already tried, so many times.”

“Have you tried when we were in love?” Softly. Softly was how she would look at him, now and forever. “I think it might make all the difference.”

_ii._

There was happiness, and there was bliss, and there were certainly more synonyms to continue on with, if Emmett could find one of the thesauruses of which he’d boasted.

He didn’t want to leave Grace’s—that was the only trouble. But he still had other, less gloriously all-consuming parts of his life to deal with.

He had lunch with Mom and felt like he was lying to her, which wasn’t strictly _true_ —but she wasn’t sharing in the complete truth of his life. That would have to change.

Emmett decided to tackle the easier task first. He texted Harry to meet up. He hadn’t seen Harry since Christmas. So much had changed, in only a few weeks.

Harry met him at the coffeeshop in Highbury. It seemed a better place to talk than Hartfield, given Mom’s current state of ignorance.

“How’s it going, man?” Harry shook hands, but seemed a little reticent. He’d gotten a haircut. It looked expensive. Already shaking the dust of bank-telling from his feet, Emmett assumed.

“Life is good,” Emmett said. “I know it’s only been a couple weeks, but…I felt like we had a few things to clear up.”

Harry nodded gravely. “Definitely. You want to go first?”

“Grace and I are together,” Emmett said.

“I’m dating Rosa,” Harry said, apparently wanting to go a very rapid second. He was tense, hand clenched around his coffee-mug, steeling himself for whatever the response would be.

In many ways, Emmett realized, Harry had come far.

“Congratulations,” Emmett said. “I’m very happy for you.”

The lines of Harry’s shoulders visibly relaxed. “You are?”

“I’m sorry,” Emmett said. “I pushed you apart from Rosa when I never should have. I did a lot of things I shouldn’t have.”

Harry smiled. It was genuine; they were still friends. “Guess Grace is going to straighten you out now, huh?”

Emmett returned a grin of his own. “That’s the plan.”

The plan, if he was being honest with himself—and he really was trying, these days—was for Mom to not freak out. That would be… _ideal_ , to say the least.

It was late afternoon when he got home. He’d say it after dinner, so that it wouldn’t interfere with her appetite until tomorrow’s breakfast.

Hartfield’s bricks were almost blood-red in the setting sun. He loved this house, too, for all its complications. He had to imagine his father would be happy for him now. That years of shallowness and denial hadn’t robbed his second son of a future.

The Caballero girls were the redemption of the Woodhouse sons.

Emmett stood in the last of the sunlight, and reminded himself that his mother loved him too.

“You’ve been gone all day,” she said. He took both her hands in his.

“I’m here now.”  

 They had dinner together, but Emmett barely paid attention to the taste of the food. He loved her, and he owed her, but that didn’t mean he had to stay forever.

He knew she wouldn’t understand.

After dinner, he expected her to take her usual place in the living room, but instead, she moved to the kitchen. The evening maid hadn’t started her shift.

“You want some coffee, hon?”

“Do you do that now?” He tucked his hands in his pockets and followed her. “Sure. I’d love an after-dinner demitasse.”

“What’s a demitasse?”

“Don’t worry about it. I’m just being pretentious. You know.”

“You’re not pretentious, you’re just smart.” Mom reached for the cups and saucers. “Is…are you thinking about Connecticut again?”

He hadn’t been expecting that question. “No,” he said. Before she could prematurely rejoice, he added, “But there is something else I want to talk to you about, Mom.”

She pressed a hand to her heart. “Go ahead. I can tell from the look on your face, it’s not going to be anything I want to hear, but so be it.”

_Not a great way to start._

“Mom, I…I have someone. Someone who’s important to me.”

From her expression, he might as well have told her he was on the point of death. Which was ironic, because a conversation very like that _had_ happened in this family before.

“You’re leaving.” There were tears in her voice before there were tears in her eyes. “For good, this time.”

“Well, that’s the thing.” Emmett tried to remember the advice Grace had given him. _Be compassionate, Emmett. Don’t be angry for the things she can’t help._ “I won’t be leaving.” He couldn’t keep the smile off his face, even under the circumstances. “The person…the _someone_. It’s Grace.”

He saw Mom move her hand to swipe one of the coffee mugs off the counter, but he wasn’t having _that_ , so he reached forward and saved it. “Come on, Mom. Don’t do that.”

“I needed a _smash_ ,” she said petulantly, and sank to the floor herself.

 _Compassionate_ , Grace had said.

Grace had known this would be hard.

Against every internal inclination _and_ his concern for his wool-blend trousers, Emmett sat down beside her. She was sobbing into her hands now.

He wanted to say, _you never even visited me at college_ , _you are so goddamn selfish no matter what I do or say, you are the worst parts of me_. Instead, he went deeper. “I never got over Dad dying, Mom.”

She didn’t lift her head, but the next sob didn’t come.

Emmett traced the edge of a tile with his thumb. “I wasn’t old enough to understand what I was supposed to do. I understood that he was dying, but I didn’t know…I didn’t really get that there was nothing I could have done. And that even if I had said everything I wanted to say, and even if he had said everything _he_ wanted to say, there still wouldn’t have been enough time. I’ve spent…almost fifteen years just—feeling like you and Ike were in the way of what I should have done. And I was in the way most of all, every time I screwed up, or was selfish, or couldn’t stick to anything.”

“Em—”

“Hey.” He raised a hand, and then took a chance and rested it on her knee. In a second, one of her hands was on his. “I need you to hear this. I love you, and I love Ike, and we are all three of us imperfect. And Dad loved all of us, and that…that’s how it is. I don’t know if this is how things are supposed to be, with the way we all are.”

He knew Mom wanted to say something, but she was being good, listening.

“Grace is the best thing that has ever happened to me,” Emmett said. “I know you want to be that for me, and I know you love me, but Grace…Grace gets to love me too. And I get to love her. And we will be here. We are not leaving Highbury. Ever. You know how that girl is about her strawberries.”

Mom heaved in a shaky breath. “I thought she was selling out to August Hawkins.”

Emmett thought of saying, _over my dead body_ , and then thought better of it. “She’s not. I’m going to invest in her business, and we’re going to keep it running. And we’re going to keep us running, too. You, and Ike, and Julia, and every kid they want to have—we are not letting this family fall apart. And nobody’s running away.”

Mom didn’t say anything for a long time. Then she patted his hand, twice. “Grace is a nice girl,” she said finally, dabbing at her eyes. “But I think that I’ve injured my hip, sitting on this floor so long. Will you help me up?”

Emmett got to his feet, hiding his smile as best he could, and stopped to kiss the top of her head. “Yes,” he said. “I will.”


	39. Chapter XXXIX

_“I would rather be talking to you…but as it seems a matter of justice, it shall be done.”_

_i._

To say that Julia gloated was an understatement of near staggering proportions. Grace had to hold the phone well away from her ear for a few moments so that Julia could give full vent to her feelings.

“I could have left you in the dark!” Grace shouted at last. “I could have waited until you came home for Easter!”

“You never would have,” Julia retorted, marginally calmer. “You would have been bursting with it. You _are_. You sound so… _happy_ , Grace. I’ve never heard you be much more than flat.”

“Thanks. I think?” Grace _was_ too elated to be much affected by Julia’s sisterly barbs. “You get to be right, OK? You get to be completely right.”

All the years of family parties, not to mention weddings—all the Christmases and long, lazy weekends. Julia had been onto something almost from the beginning.

Julia practically chortled. “I’m just glad I didn’t have to watch you two idiots do this for another year. It was torture when you visited us, Grace. Every time one of you would look away, the other one would start making these big cow-eyes, pining all over my furniture. Ridiculous.”

“Are you going to say all that in your maid-of-honor speech?” Grace asked.

Julia gasped. “Hold up—are you _engaged_? You sneaky little—”

“Not yet,” Grace answered mildly. “But there’s no reason to expect that _not_ to happen.”

“Holy…” Julia trailed off. “Girl, you’re officially worse than me. Crazy in love. You have been dating for _one day_. Maybe two. Three? Did you wait to call me?”

“But we’ve been in love so much longer than that,” Grace said, smiling to herself. Paco rolled over against her ankles, and she scratched his belly obligingly.  “So I don’t think we’re rushing this at all.”

Later that day, she had another errand, less jubilant than Julia’s raptures—but a satisfying errand all the same. Of course, given the option, she would rather have spent the time with Emmett.

Justice, however, was justice.

Grace drove to August and Marnie’s with the windows down, because the day was relatively warm. When she pulled into their driveway, she faced down the stately ugliness of their home once again. But this time, it didn’t overwhelm her. Like so many things, it simply was. And Grace was not beholden to it anymore.

August was in his office, typing away and looking ludicrously formal for a man working from home. To think of how close she’d been—but no need for that now. Grace waited for him to notice her. Marnie had let her in, without much of an effort at small talk. Grace was grateful for that.

When he saw her, he jumped up, nearly knocking over a teetering Tiffany lamp. “Grace! Here, I hope, to make things official?”

“August,” Grace said firmly, “We’re not going to need to make a deal.”

He opened his mouth to argue. He didn’t have grounds to sue her, of course; Grace knew how to have a business discussion without making an offer. The most that had happened to her in a business discussion was a declaration of love, of course, but that was a very different matter. “But I thought—” He grimaced. “Grace, Miss Caballero, please. No one else is going to be willing to take that farmhouse off your hands.”

 _That_ was an interesting way to prolong this, though Grace saw it as nothing more than a desperate last grab. “Then why were _you_?”

August all but wrung his hands. “Don’t put me in past tense! I see potential where others don’t. I’m just trying to help you understand your own business…and its limitations.”

Grace raised a hand. “Thank you, August. It turns out that I’m not in need of _help_. What I need is a partner, and I’m happy to say that I’ve found one.” She was already turning away; it was the only thing she could do to effectively end this conversation. “Good luck to you in your own work. I hope that if you and Marnie stay here long-term, you bring more kindness to our community. It will be expected.”

_ii._

“And then you punched him in the nose.”

Grace rolled her eyes, but he could tell she was amused. “No, Em, I did not punch him. It didn’t come to that.”

Emmett sighed dramatically, though, of course, he hadn’t been expecting that particular outcome. “I’ll just do it when I next see him.”

They were in her kitchen. Grace was dipping strawberries in chocolate and laying them on wax paper with pristine care. They were having dinner later with Harry and Rosa, and Grace was insisting on cooking. She had shot down Emmett’s offer of a private chef. “For offering to buy my farm?”

“For the punch bowl.”

She turned down the heat under the double-boiler. “Babe, that was technically Marnie, remember?”

 _Babe._ Emmett almost died right there. Almost stretched out on the floor and erected a tombstone—and would have been glad to do it. “Fine. I’ll punch him as a proxy.”

Grace crossed the room, to where he was leaning against her flower-papered wall, and hugged him. She laughed into his shoulder. “Emmett, I love you.”

There would never come a time when those words didn’t send warmth coursing through him. He could have lived in those words. He planned to. “I thought it always bothered you when I made fantastic threats against the people who have wronged you.”

“I always thought it was cute. I was just pretending to be responsible.” Grace giggled. It was a very dear sound. “You’re like a chihuahua. So much vicious…intent.”

He laughed, arms tightening around her. “And lacking in execution?”

“When it comes to vicious threats, at least.” Grace patted his hand and returned to her strawberries. “I mean—listen, August wasn’t happy about the farm, but we hadn’t signed anything. I hadn’t made him an offer, or accepted any offer of his.”

Emmett followed, ostensibly to sneak some chocolate, and reached up to twirl a strand of her hair around his finger. “Look at you, an expert in contract law. Are you keeping a lawyer in your pocket that I don’t know about?”

“I learn what I have to learn,” Grace said. “Sometimes, I wait too long.” She kissed his cheek. “Now, are you going to tell me what you brought over in that mysterious case of yours?”

Emmett popped a wayward strawberry in his mouth and reached for the long, flat portfolio he’d brought with him today. “Well,” he said. “You said you wanted me to draw you again.”

It was gratifying, how pink she turned. “Here? Now? I look like a mess.”

That wasn’t true at all, he thought. She was _Grace_ —long lashes, a few curls escaping from her bun. An apron tied in an uneven bow behind her back. She was perfect, and Emmett unpacked his sketchpad and began to search for the right pencils, all with that perfect warmth taking up comfortable residence between his ribs.

“What should I do?” It was unlike Grace, this uncertainty. She was _nervous_ , he realized, and a little shy.

“Just keep making strawberries,” he said. “We’ll go from there.” He found the right shade of burnt ochre, and began. “You can just forget I’m here.”

Grace murmured, “I don’t want to forget that.” Her shoulders relaxed. She reached for another berry, and Emmett caught the line of her arm, the turn of her wrist.  

He looked at her and loved her; the two were the same. 

The two had always been the same.


	40. Epilogue

_“Time passed on…in the perfect happiness of the union.”_

**Portraits of Rural America: The Strawberry Queen**

SANTA CRUZ, Ca.

M. Kirch

Jun. 24, 20—

An hour’s drive from Santa Cruz, Highbury is one of California’s agro-tourism gems, but it still feels undiscovered. It’s also home to an artist named to the _Times_ “35 under 35: Creators” last month. Emmett Woodhouse has skipped the traditional routes of success belonging to trust-fund babies and is making his mark through art.

Not quite Rockwellesque, Woodhouse’s paintings don’t need to be—they capture dirt-under-the-nails work ethic with a reverence that recalls Botticelli’s Madonnas. His most successful piece so far, _The Strawberry Queen_ , shows a faceless woman with red-stained hands clasped loosely behind her as she surveys the long rows that native Californians—and migrant workers—know well.

Many have speculated that the artist’s wife, Grace Caballero-Woodhouse, who is the proprietor of the same strawberry fields depicted in much of the artist’s work, is the subject of _The Strawberry Queen_. However, neither she nor her husband have confirmed the rumor.

The couple are expecting their first child in November.

_Continued on B5._

 

_THE END_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to every reader and reviewer. Your love was very felt. If you like what I do, keep an eye out for the next genderbend! It's coming soon.


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